“I don’t think I could,” she confessed.
As a reward, he stroked his thumb across her nipple through her blouse, sliding it back and forth, sending streaks of heat and light straight between her legs. The ache she felt became a fierce craving for him. She needed more. She strained for his thigh, and he gave it to her for just a moment, long enough that she could rub frantically against him, withdrawing before she reached fever pitch.
Then he kissed her, as if he couldn’t help himself, as if he wanted to consume her, and for a second the heat and twisting and rising sensations in her spiraled so fast she thought she was going to lose control. He stepped back and gave her a devilish, knowing smile.
“More?”
“More.”
“You got it.”
He knelt.
Oh, God, he couldn’t be serious. It was one thing to kiss and grope in a dressing room, and quite another to do what he was so apparently about to do. She’d have to stop wearing skirts. She was making this far too easy for both of them to break her rules. She shouldn’t be doing this. She shouldn’t be here. She’d told Elisa exactly why this could lead nowhere good.
He put one hand on each thigh and pushed her skirt up.
She clamped her thighs together, and said, “We shouldn’t.” But the truth was, that only sharpened the sensation, and she had to release the tension or risk coming right then and there.
He pressed his nose against her purple lace panties and breathed deeply. “You smell amazing.”
“I can’t. You can’t.”
But he was licking her through the lace, and she could feel the heat of his breath, the dampness of his tongue and the perfect pressure against her clit.
“You don’t want to do that,” she insisted.
“Do what?”
“What you’re doing.”
“Oh, believe me, I want to do what I’m doing. And way more.” He hooked his fingers into her panties and began sliding them down.
“I didn’t... I’m not... I should have...”
But as his thumbs stroked her lips gently apart and his tongue settled against her clit, it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest that she hadn’t waxed this week, that she hadn’t shaved her thighs this morning, that the smell of her was rising all around them, rich and terrifying, because she had no idea she could be this wet, this messy, this exposed.
She’d had no idea that it could feel this good.
There was the flat of his tongue, hot and everywhere. The grit of his stubble against her skin. The tip of his tongue finding the most sensitive part of her clit and working it over and over again. His tongue swirling, moving around and in until she lost her sense of direction and her knees buckled. His hands gripped her thighs and her ass, holding her up, making sure she didn’t fall, while sensation pulled itself together into the tightest knot and burst outward, bright and violent and mind-blowing.
He sat on the chair in the dressing room and drew her down into his lap, until everything made sense again and cold shame found its grip. She wanted to get up and put herself back together, but he wouldn’t let her. He held her too tight, his face pressed into her neck, and she couldn’t move because her brain wasn’t in charge. Her body was content never to be let go.