Chapter Two#p#分页标题#e#
She knew he was there long before her eyes, her nose, or her skin registered him, ears perked and hearing an unspoken need that shouted through the silence. Her neck shifted to the left, open for his lips, and he did not disappoint. As if forged by God for his very shape, the touch of his mouth on the nape of her neck seemed divine, shaped for this moment, the two parts of flesh melding into one through the sigh that escaped her, unbidden and knowing.
When Mike’s hands slid over her shoulders, down to her elbows, then effortlessly transitioned to her hips, the two slipping into a V that traveled to her womanhood and stroked out to her thighs, his cock hard against the cleft of her ass as the shower spray poured down on them, the sigh that came from her was like a prayer. Spinning around, she took his face in her hands and kissed him, hard, the sudden, fierce uprising in her needing as much of him now, right now, hard and fast and tough and quick and in and out immediately. His tongue matched hers, all fire and taking, as his knees parted her legs, then let her go with a tight nip to her lower lip, turning her around and bending her down.
“You are so luscious,” he murmured in her ear, words shattered by the spray and the steam, cut into bits and pieces her overwhelmed, pulsing mind and body could barely understand, the allure of his hands on her breasts, one pausing to shift himself and plunge into her, then resuming its spot on her overflowing cup, taking her to an aroused madness. As friction grew, his thrusts timed perfectly, her swollen, red passage seemed tapped into her lungs, her heart, her lips and her everything.
Mike’s hands roamed her torso, teasing her clit as his gliding tightened, thrusts harder and more focused, the feel of his body behind her hardening as his own climax surely built. Her fingers clawed at the tiled walls, needing flesh to dig into, to hold on to for the wild ride of an explosive, wet, dripping orgasm that—
Beep, beep, beep. “Ack!’ she squeaked, hand flailing for her phone. An alarm? What? Eyes unfocused and clit in the throes of an orgasm (huh? In her sleep?) she fumbled the phone, its ineffectual clunk on the floor making her cringe in horror. Another broken glass screen wasn’t going to please the geniuses at the Apple store.
Retrieving it and sighing loudly with relief at its intact condition, she stared dumbly. An alarm for a meeting at work. Jesus. So why was her pussy on overdrive, pulsing as if she—
Oh.
A flash of her dream drizzled into her subconscious —and then a tsunami of tactile and mental dream memories hit her.
Seriously? Coming from a dream? Was she that far gone?
As her clit drummed a beat like a bass drum being attacked by a throng of marching band directors, the answer made her weep with frustration.
Yes. Apparently.
Josie was, quite possibly, Dylan and Mike’s savior, because it appeared that she had convinced Laura to give them a shot and to come over for dinner. One very, very long week had passed without word from her, and then—a text. A quick phone call. An invitation heartily extended and hesitantly accepted.
Accepted. That’s what counted, right? They had a chance.
Mike knew they could blow this so easily, so he had deferred to Dylan as the cook tonight. Admitting he was better in the kitchen was hard, but he had to face facts: something about the Italian in Dylan made his food a little extra...something. Extra flavorful? Extra intense?
Extra fine. Like the man. And if that little bit of extra could be the deciding factor between Laura’s giving them a chance or walking away, Dylan could cook.
Choosing the wine, though, was Mike’s fierce prerogative.
“Oh, a nice red!” Laura teased, taking the glass by the stem from Mike’s nervous hand. They were standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen in his and Dylan’s apartment, the entire place decorated in a slick, cold grey and black scheme he had never liked, but that been a legacy of choosing this place a few years ago. The price had been a stretch for him and Dylan, though Jill had shouldered a bit more of the rent; after her death they’d learned she had paid well over half the real price, the two of them blindly forking over a rent check to her every month, never knowing the true cost.
So he understood—on a more trivial level—how it felt to be duped. You’re really comparing that to this? his conscience exclaimed, riding him. Not even close.
“It’s a Chilean carmenere.” OK, OK, he argued back with himself. Not the same. Stop comparing and just stay in the moment. He took a deep breath, held it for seven seconds, and let it out in four. Center yourself, man. She’s worth it.