We last thirty minutes, and then I make an executive decision. There’s not much reason to stay here any longer when there are tongues that need to be used for entertainment.
25
Joy
Eighty-four steps are worth it.
For the view.
For the June breeze, after the last few weeks of rain and chilly nights.
And for this possibility.
A glass of white, burgundy lace panties, and a cushioned chaise lounge. Soft music floats from my phone, and the lights of the city give me the best art in the world to gaze at while I wait.
I don’t wait long.
I only asked for a few minutes.
The door is unlocked, and soon I hear the creak of wood, the groan of the door closing, then footsteps on the stairs leading to the roof. The little hairs on my arms stand on end before he even reaches me. My body hums, and thrills race over my skin.
He turns the corner at the top of the steps, and his eyes blaze with a desire I can read even in the dark, even from ten feet away.
I’m the stage, and he’s just turned on all the lights. They spotlight me, and tingling awareness and longing prickle across my skin. I’m the peach left on the table, and he’s going to take it, bring it to his lips, and bite into it.
A harsh, wild breath dares to escape my lips as he walks over to me. To complete the seduction, I bring the glass of wine to my lips as coolly as I can, steadying it and taking one more drink.
He reaches me, so much heat in his blue eyes. “How does it taste?”
He’s asking about the wine. But there are so many other meanings. “Try it.”
I offer him the glass and he takes it, drinking some down as he sits on the end of the chaise. He hands the glass back to me, and I set it on the table.
He curls a hand around my ankle.
My shoes are still on. Sling-back black heels.
He eyes them, running his fingers over the top of my foot. A pulse beats between my legs as heat pools in my center. Already, I’m wet and aching for him. I don’t know how I’ll go without this kind of sex, this kind of intimacy, this kind of expectation.
I’ll miss it savagely when he’s gone in a few weeks, and I fiercely want more of it already.
“Nice red soles,” he says, admiring the shoes.
“Nice everything,” I say to him, since he’s fully dressed.
Firmly, he presses down on my right ankle, forcing me to drop my leg, to open myself for him.
A growl sounds as if it’s ripped from his throat as he stares at me. His eyes zero in on my panties. “Look at you. So wet already.”
He grasps my other ankle and moves it, positioning the heels of my shoes at the edge of the chaise. My legs are parted for him.
“Take your clothes off,” I tell him, but it doesn’t sound like a command. More like a desperate plea.
He shakes his head at the same time he strips off his shirt in one fast move. I sigh greedily as I admire his skin in the moonlight. The hard planes of his pecs, the grooves of his abs. The six-pack. Thank the Lord for the six-pack. I bow down before its gloriously hard design and shape.
“Can’t wait anymore.” He bends to the chaise, crawls up it, and tugs off my panties in one swift move. He untangles them from my shoes and tosses them on the terrace. I groan his name like a woman possessed when his tongue flicks across my wetness.
I melt under his knowing touch. It’s not the first time he’s done this to me. I’ve enjoyed the sight of his face between my legs many nights. I’ve savored it, and come for him.
He knows what to do. He knows how to touch me. He licks a lingering line up my center then presses his hands to my thighs, spreading me open. He makes me vulnerable to him, to the moment, to the pleasure.
But that’s exactly how I want to be.
I want to let go. I want to give in. I’ve never known sex could be like this. I’ve never felt intimacy this intensely before.
In the past, I’ve been guarded, cautious, protected the pieces of myself as best as I can.
But with Griffin, he can’t seem to get enough. He wants so much, craves so deeply, and gives so freely of pleasure. It unlocks something inside me. The way he touches me, the way he talks to me, makes me want to let go. I reach for the lever on the side of the chaise, and I lower it, going flat.
He murmurs as he presses his whole mouth to me.
I cry out. I love when he consumes me. I love when it feels like he’s going to lose control from tasting me. I arch into him, rocking my hips as he kisses me so intensely, so passionately that I know he’s going to draw an orgasm out of me in mere seconds.
My hands find their way to his head, and my fingers thread through his dark hair. They curl around his skull, and he seems to mirror my moves. His hands scoop beneath me, cupping my ass, pulling me closer. It’s like he’s drinking me in. My eyes float closed, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I tell myself to open them.
To watch.
I want to remember not only what this feels like, but what it looks like.
Streaks of moonlight dance across my belly. The lights of the Eiffel Tower twinkle against the night, reflecting across his arms wrapped around me. Shadows shroud his face, buried between my legs as he licks and consumes.
His tongue is everywhere. Lapping me up, kissing me, flicking
