Bringing the cigarette to my lips, I took a pull and winked before blowing the smoke in her direction. “You’re welcome.”
She lunged. I hadn’t been prepared, content to watch her pace my living room until the end of time—as it seemed she would use all of that time—but I found a way to get there quick.
Attack was her intention, but I caught her by the chin an inch from my face and held her there until her eyes met mine.
She trembled, and it all started to make sense. Lola’s anger was only a front for emotion, for arousal, and for a whole hell of a lot of agreement with me in every goddamn way possible.
She wanted me, and I always wanted her.
Neither of us needed any more foreplay. We needed connection. And we needed it fast.
“You need a release, huh, LoLo?” I asked on a whisper.
My fingertips flexed on her jaw while she took a minute to consider all of the options. Give me what I want, and get what she so obviously needed? Or run from everything because she couldn’t stand the idea of needing it at all?
It didn’t take long, just one simple reminder squeeze from my fingers at her jaw, and she nodded.
“What do you need?” I asked softly. Her eyes closed and her head tipped back, opening her throat further. I moved my lips to her ear. “What do you need?” I repeated, skimming the skin with more than my breath.
Her nerves made the column of her throat flutter.
My hand slid down her throat to the base, spanning the very top of her chest, and her eyes came back to mine. “You need a smoke?” I asked, and she shook her head.
My hand flexed at the bottom of her throat, squeezing slightly as I brought the cigarette to my lips one final time.
Dropping the butt in the ashtray to my right, I asked her again. “What do you need?”
The tip of her tongue rounded the rim of her lips and left them wet in its wake, but an answer still didn’t come.
“You gotta tell me,” I told her, knowing that I wasn’t just speaking for her. I was actually buzzing inside, coming apart from the inside out with the need to know how to please her.
She leaned forward and raised the volume on the already playing music on my laptop. “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails was just starting. My pulse sped up to throb in time with each beat.
Pushing back to standing, Lola had the same idea but on a grander scale, moving her body to the music and removing one piece of clothing at a time. Transfixed, I didn’t move from the chair—couldn’t. I was a captive of her movement, a prisoner of her provocation, just watching as she littered the floor of my living room with article after article until there were one hundred percent more clothes on the floor than her body.
My own body awakened at the sight and the feel of the moment. It wasn’t just watching her, and it wasn’t just skin. Lola’s eyes looked harder, and her breath came and went in bigger gulps. There was a cloud around us, powerful and noxious, something we made by looking into each other’s eyes and seeing more than the color.
Slowly, so fucking slowly it hurt, she sucked her middle finger all the way into her mouth and back out again. Down, down, down her body, she left a trail of moisture until it met her clit. A pause. And then one perfect strum.
I had to force myself back into the chair.
“Me or you, Lo?” I asked, and she moaned, playing with herself.
Oh, fuck.
My ass left the chair, and she noticed. Her eyes met mine with a shake.
“Uh-uh-uh. Sit back down.”
Difficult as it was physically, I did as ordered. Because this moment was bigger than anything I could conjure in my mind and bigger than Lola realized in her own.
Her body went back to dancing, her eyes went back into her head, and her hand went back to her clit. Each movement was deliberate and measured and close to snapping my control.
I slapped at the desk blindly, searching for my pack of cigarettes—because, holy fuck, I need another one.
One hand played with her nipple while the other shoved a finger inside, and I wanted to die. Die because I was in heaven, and I was in hell, and Lola was the sexiest, most erotically confident creature I’d ever encountered in my whole entire life.
Sweet Jesus.
She built the pace as the song climbed and moved her breast-fondling hand down to her clit. In and out, in and out, strum, strum, strum.
I was literally going to come in my goddamn pants.
She gasped once, twice, and the song demanded she get there, forced the issue, building and building and then holding it there until I thought I’d lose my goddamn mind.
All at once, the tempo dropped from the top of the cliff, and she went too in one big rush, moaning and crying out with an intensity that made me snap the cigarette in my hand right in two.