She lifts her hips for me as I tug the stretchy material down, making sure to catch her underwear with it. While I’d love to see her in sexy lingerie, that’ll have to wait for another night. Right now, any scraps of lacy fabric would just be in my way.
And as slow as I’m moving right now, I can’t handle dragging out the anticipation any longer.
Once I tug the fabric off her feet and drop it in a puddle next to my shirt, she brings her knees together, her legs bent and off to the side. That plump pink lip is once again caught between her teeth, and her eyes won’t meet mine.
Sliding a hand up the outside of her smooth thigh, I lean in for another kiss, needing to soothe her nerves—and mine—with touch. She relaxes under me, uncurling herself, letting me settle in the cradle of her thighs once more.
And as much as I’m dying to move back down, taste her, feel her come on my fingers, I’m loath to leave the sweet heaven of her mouth.
What is this woman doing to me? I haven’t spent this long on foreplay in forever. Maybe ever in my life. And I’m not even planning on more than some oral and heavy petting. Not with how cagey and wary of me she is. She deserves to be romanced. At least as much as I’m able, though I’m not sure how romantic champagne and liquor in a private room at a club that she organized or sharing room service she ordered in my hotel room after a show really is. Unconventional dates, for sure. But I haven’t been on a conventional date of dinner and a show since my days at Berklee. And since the show usually consisted of our friends performing somewhere, even that was borderline conventional at best.
Now, though? We’re touring. Going out requires a level of coordination that’s difficult to manage on my own. The kind of coordination I’d usually ask my assistant to help with. But since she’s the one I want to wine and dine, that doesn’t really work.
So room service in my hotel room is the best I can do right now. Next time, I’ll make it clear that I’ll be in charge of ordering the food. That she’s not expected to organize our dates.
I slip one hand down her body, sliding it between her thighs. When I make contact with her wet heat, she lets out another little gasp of pleasure, spreading her thighs more and pushing herself into my hand. Even so, I take my sweet time, running my fingers gently up and down, spreading her arousal all around before slipping my middle finger inside.
It’s my turn to let out a pleasurable moan. After working one finger in and out a few times, I add another, ending the kiss so I can watch her reactions on her face. Her hands open and close on the fabric of the couch, like she needs something to hold onto, but doesn’t know what.
“That’s it, V,” I whisper. “Let me make you feel good.”
She responds by clamping down on my fingers with her inner muscles. When I brush my thumb over her clit, she does it again. Smirking, I shift, pushing one of her legs up and back as I move down, making room for my shoulders between her thighs.
Her eyes open wide, holding my gaze as I dip my head and swirl the tip of my tongue around her clit.
“Oh!” she says, her mouth perfectly round.
I do it again.
This time her head falls back, her mouth open on an, “Ah!”
Licking from where my fingers disappear into her body up to her clit, circling around and back down, I gather her salty sweetness on my tongue. She tastes even better than I imagined, the particular flavor of her surrender even better as she abandons herself to the pleasure.
Never letting up, I take her to the brink and hold her there for just a moment, just long enough to hear her beg, “Oh god, Mason, please please please,” and fighting back a smug grin, I suck her clit into my mouth and lash it with my tongue until she’s convulsing, her thighs shaking and her inner muscles fluttering around my fingers.
I take my time gently bringing her down, only withdrawing my fingers once she’s gone completely limp. Reaching for my discarded shirt, I use it to wipe my hand and mouth, no longer bothering to hide my smug grin as Viola lays sprawled and boneless on my hotel couch.
After a moment, she props herself up on her elbows, no longer shy, her eyes fastened on the obvious bulge in my jeans. “What do you plan to do about that?”
Scooping her legs up, I sit down and bring them over my lap. “Did you have something in mind?”
She shrugs, her cheeks turning pinker. Maybe she’s still a little shy after all. “I could return the favor.”
Part of me wants to take her up on the offer—I always appreciate a blow job, after all. But something about having her blow me doesn’t quite sit right with me. I mistook her for a groupie the first time we met. I don’t want to give her any excuse to think I still think of her that way.
Before I can respond, though, she pulls her legs off my lap and sits up, moving close to me, pressing her tits against my bare arm. She reaches down and undoes the button and zipper on my jeans. Her hand dips inside, stroking me over the fabric of my boxer briefs.
She presses a kiss to my cheek. “Let me make you feel good,” she whispers.
Breath hissing through my teeth, I lift my hips and shove my clothes down and out of the way, my cock springing free. Her eyes light
