“I need a minute,” she said, advancing on him. He didn’t have anything sensible to say to that and she captured his hands when he tried to touch her, spin her, see all of her. What was a minute when he’d have the whole night?
“The bedroom is upstairs. Make yourself comfortable.”
By which he fricking hoped she meant naked because in her bedroom, he pulled the covers back off the bed to reveal soft sheets and silk pillowslips and ditched the rest of his clothes. The whole terrace house might be made of silk for all the notice he’d taken of it. He was stupidly eager, the hands shaking, it’d-been-too-long kind. That corset might have laces or hooks. He had to be careful not to tear her stockings on his callouses as he rolled them down her legs.
He was sitting on the end of her bed, trying to slow his heart rate, thinking about taking his time unwrapping her, making her twitch and sigh and groan before they got to the main event, when she reappeared absolutely fucking gloriously naked.
Teardrop-shaped breasts with both nipples pierced.
There was no way to be disappointed about that. It was almost a religious moment. Soaring symphonies hit a crescendo in his head. Mena filled his sense with wonder, made his hands warm, ready to play.
“You know how to make an entrance.”
She tossed him a box of condoms. “You know how to make yourself at home.”
“Tell me how I make you come?” Her eyes were on his happily upright dick and his Prince Albert piercing. “Does it put you off? It’ll feel like an ultra-ribbed tip.” Or so he’d been told.
She stalked across to him, sat across his knees and speared a hand through his hair. “Nothing about you puts me off. I don’t think you’re going to have any trouble making me come.”
He could smell her arousal. He put his hands to her back, tried to look at all of her, kept getting hung up on details, the tiny ridges in her skin where her corset had rested, the smattering of freckles across her collarbone, the fold of her belly button and a neat landing strip of pubic hair.
Her nipples were the kind that always stood proud, and she wore circles of tiny blue gems around them. He used a thumb to rub across one in a circular motion and she arched to give him better access.
“I want to gorge myself on you, Mena. You are sexy as fuck.”
She pulled his head back and kissed him, her mouth hot, her thighs and knees tightening against his thighs and hips, her breasts pressed to him. “You can bank on making me come if you help me keep my pelvis tilted and you know how to use that piercing.”
He’d use it to make her shake and moan. He made a song list in his head for her. Staged a whole concert. He’d use a pillow, he’d use his hands, and his mouth and his whole heart to make her cry out, to make her a devoted fan who fell asleep sated beside him.
That was it for discussion. On with the show. He put his lips to work tasting her, his hands to work stroking her, shaping her limbs and molding her breasts and her arse, sifting her hair through his fingertips, exploring to find all the touches she liked in all the places that turned her on.
When she wrapped her hand around his cock and flicked the dumbbell, he lowered his head to watch. She didn’t need his help to know what he liked, had him trembling, gritting his teeth with her firm hold, the slide and twist action of her wrist. She made a move to slip to her knees and he stopped her. Much as the idea of being in her mouth made his head spin, he was too far gone not to lose it and the only place he wanted to lose it was inside her vagina.
Then she said please, looking up at him from her knees, flushed and wild-haired and pink-lipped and he knew himself to be the richest man in the fucking world.
And she was a goddess with a wicked lick and a devastating mouth and a hunger that made him tremble as she owned him, cock, balls, mind, soul.
He was gone, gone, rolling back onto the bed, back arched, eyes slammed shut as his orgasm rocketed through him. She drank every drop, and when he was wrung dry, she licked her lips like he’d offered her a gourmet favorite.
This woman was a heart attack before he was old enough. A blood clot that could stop him dead. She was hot enough to burn him alive.
That lick lip, the voracious look on her face, acted like a stimulant, washed him through with a bust of energy. He reached for her, urged her off her knees to lay over him, where he took her mouth intent on understanding the surprise of her.
He’d had it all wrong from the beginning. There was nothing cold about her, nothing too controlled. That sedate clothing and competent manner were her camouflage, the rubber suit she wore to hide the real Mena from the world, and just as well because the real Mena was fucking dangerous.
That lesson was written in the taste of her mouth, in the weight of her breast and the curve of her hip. She taught him everything he needed to know to please her with her scent and her sighs with the undulation of her back and the tension in her thighs. He made a thorough study of her skin and the lush shape of her, hollows and swells and secret sensitive places that made her groan and writhe. Places inside her that demanded his tongue, the curling of his fingers, the nudging of a knuckle.
