“I may have asked the concierge to pick them up this afternoon.”
“You bought me heels.”
“I bought you heels that go with my jersey.” He stands behind me, his mouth brushing my ear. “Put them on.”
“Just the shoes?” I ask.
“No, my jersey and the heels, no underwear.”
Oh. Kinky. “You’ve been planning this.”
“Since this morning. When you were lying in your bed in my shirt, I thought about what would look even better.” His hand slides up my spine, finding my zipper. “My name on your back. Those legs in heels. Nothing else.”
Shit. I bite my bottom lip. He unzips my dress slowly, his knuckles dragging down my spine, and the dress pools at my feet. He unclasps my bra and lets it fall beside the dress. Then he hooks his fingers into my underwear and slides them down my legs. I step out of them, and I’m naked in his bedroom, and his eyes are raking over me like I’m something holy.
“Now.” He picks up the jersey and holds it open for me. I slide my arms in, and it falls to mid-thigh, soft and oversized, his number on my back, his name across my shoulders. He pulls my hair free from the collar and steps back.
“Heels,” he says.
I step into them, four inches, and my legs look endless. I turn to face him, and the sound he makes is barely human.
“Fuck.” He says it like a prayer. His eyes travel from the heels up my bare legs to the hem of the jersey that barely covers my ass, to my face. “You have no idea what you look like right now.”
“Tell me.”
“Like every fantasy I’ve ever had, standing in my bedroom wearing my name.” He moves toward me, slow, deliberate, and pulls me against him by the jersey. “I’m going to ruin you.”
“Promise?”
He kisses me hard, his hands slide under the jersey, gripping my bare waist, my ribs, my breasts. The jersey stays on, as do the heels. Everything else is his hands and his mouth and the heat building between us so fast it’s dizzying. He backs me toward the bed and sits me on the edge. Then he drops to his knees in front of me. The sight of Justin Crawford on his knees between my legs while I’m wearing his jersey and heels is something I want burned into my memory forever.
“Spread your legs,” he tells me.
I do, the jersey rides up, and he groans at the sight. His hands grip my thighs, pushing them wider, and his mouth finds me. No teasing this time. No edging. He’s hungry and direct, and his tongue works me like he’s trying to win another game. My good hand grips his hair, my head falls back, and I moan so loud his neighbors are definitely going to file a complaint.
“Justin. Oh my god.”
He hums against me, and the vibration makes my thighs shake. His tongue circles my clit, then flattens, licking long and slow before sucking gently. My hips buck against his face, and he holds me down, his fingers digging into my thighs.
“You taste so fucking good.” He groans against me. “I could do this for hours.”
“I won’t last hours.”
“Then I’ll make you come and start again.” He slides two fingers inside me, curling them, hitting that spot while hismouth stays on my clit, and I’m already climbing. It’s fast and desperate, and my body is wound so tight from watching him play all night that it doesn’t take long.
“I’m going to …”
“Do it. Come on my face, Lettie.”
I shatter with his name on my lips, his mouth on me, and his fingers deep inside me. He works me through it until I’m boneless and gasping, and then he reaches for my bag on the floor.
“Now,” he says, pulling out the vibrator with a grin that should be illegal. “Round two.”
“But I just came.”
“And you’re going to come again.” He turns it on. Setting four. The pulse. “Lie back.”
I lie back on the bed, still in the jersey, still in the heels, still trembling from the first orgasm. He climbs over me and pushes the jersey up to my ribs. His mouth finds my breast through the fabric while his hand slides between my legs with the vibrator.