“Your face right now,” he says, grinning. “That’s going in the memory bank.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re literally staring at my dick with your mouth open.” He smirks cockily.
“I’m assessing the situation.” I try to picture if that thing will fit.
“And?”
“Will it fit?” I ask.
“Babe. Will it fit?” He chuckles darkly.
“I’m going to need a minute,” I tell him.
“Take all the time you need.” He’s so fucking smug, and I hate that it’s attractive.
He climbs back over me, settling between my thighs, his cock hard and heavy against my stomach. He kisses me, deep and slow, while his hand slides between my legs. His fingers find me, and he groans into my mouth.
“You’re soaked,” he murmurs against my lips.
“I’ve been turned on since you carried me to the sofa. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” He slides one finger inside me, and my hips buck. “Fuck, you’re tight.” He adds a second finger, curling them, finding that spot that makes me see stars, his thumb circles my clit, and I cry out.
“Right there. Don’t stop.” I moan.
“I’m not stopping. I’m never stopping. I’ve waited too long for this.” His mouth drops to my neck, teeth scraping against my pulse as his fingers work me. “Tell me how it feels.”
“So good. God, Justin, so good.”
“Yeah?” He pumps his fingers harder, faster, his thumb pressing against my clit with exactly the right pressure. “You going to come for me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I want to feel it. I want to feel you come on my fingers before I fuck you.”
Fuck, his dirty words are doing things to me.
“I’m close.” I gasp, my hips grinding against his hand.
“Let go. I’ve got you.”
And I do, I shatter underneath him. My whole body tenses, my back arches, and his name falls from my lips in a moan that I sure as hell hope the neighbors can’t hear. He works me through it, not letting up until I’m trembling and oversensitive and pushing his hand away.
“That’s one,” he says, kissing my jaw.
“One?”
“I’m just getting started.” He grins.
“I might not survive more than one.”
“You’ll survive. But you won’t walk straight tomorrow.” He reaches for his jeans on the floor, pulling a condom from his wallet. He rolls it on, and I watch, biting my lip, because the sight of his hand wrapped around himself is enough to make me want to come again. He settles between my thighs, his cock nudging at my entrance, and he braces himself on one arm, his other hand cupping my face.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do. Those blue eyes. Dark now, blown wide with want, but underneath all of that, tenderness. The same tenderness from the corridor. From the couch. From every moment he’s ever looked at me like I’m the only person in the room.