"You always did have a way with words," I joke, sighing for dramatic effect.
"You should give me a chance to show you how much better I've gotten with words." He shoots me a smile so sinful I have to look away.
"I bet you have."
"I've gotten better at a lot of things," he whispers.
He searches my eyes as if he's asking for permission and in my amped-up state, I'm not thinking clearly . . . because I smile. It's a tiny fissure in my persona that he takes full advantage of.
My back suctions against the paint behind it as Ford cages me in. One foot on the outside of each of mine, a hand planted on the wall on both sides of my face. My knees wobble the slightest bit as he leans down and feathers his lips over mine.
They're as soft as I remember and my eyes flutter closed as my chin angles towards him, wanting more. We move together effortlessly, like there hasn't been a decade since the last time we did this.
My bottom lip drops open and that's all it takes for him to deepen the kiss. His tongue finds mine, exploring my mouth, the heat of his breath bringing up my temperature hundred-fold.
I can feel his kisses shoot through my bloodstream, regrouping again in between my legs. My hips tilt just as he presses his body closer to mine and I feel his hardness through the fabric of our clothes. My clothing pulls, sticking to the tacky wall behind me.
Moaning into his mouth, my body goes lax. Any sense I had moments ago to keep this in check-to keep it somehow to kisses-is long gone. Instead, my hands are roaming beneath his shirt and splaying over his chiseled abdomen.
As he takes my face in both of his hands, continuing his delicious assault on my lips, I drag my hands all over his body. Across his stomach, along his hips where the muscles are cut to perfection, up his sides and around to his back. Each movement causes those muscles to flex beneath my palms and with each ripple, I lose a little more judgment.
We're going so fast, trying to fit so many years of not having into this moment of having that his fingers are fumbling with the button of my jeans before I realize what's happening. I shimmy my hips, helping them drop to the floor. He grins salaciously.
"Spread your legs." It's a command, an order, given with such authority I shiver.
I'm nearly panting as I widen my stance as much as the jeans pooled at my feet will allow. The wall is warm against my bare skin, my hair feels like it's glued to the space behind me. All of that is forgotten as desire pools everywhere from my vagina to my breasts.
He holds up his right hand, showing me it's paint free. Not that I care at this point. I'd take a trip to the ER as long as I got off first.
I'm nearly trembling with anticipation as I wait for his touch. I gasp when his finger slides into me, my legs almost buckling. He draws his finger through my slit while his bright blue eyes watch my reaction.
"Damn," I hiss, my back arching at the sensation. Lacing my fingers through his hair, I bring his face down to mine. There's nothing sweet about it this time; it's frenzied, capped off by a moan into his mouth as he slips one, then two, fingers inside me.
My body hums to the tune of Ford's insertions. As he intensifies his pace, adding another finger to the mix, I think I'm going to lose it.
I feel how wet I am and know I must be dripping down his hand. The insides of my thighs ache from the build-up of the orgasm that's well on its way.
He kisses me hungrily, ravenously, even, as my hips work against his fingers, absorbing every fraction of friction I can get. Everything moves at a million miles per hour as he uses his free hand, lifts my shirt, and frees my breasts from the lace bra. Paint smears through my hair and along the side of my face in his haste to rid me of my clothes.
"Ford," I breathe, my eyes rolling in the back of my head. He rolls one of my nipples with his fingers while the other hand continues its onslaught of my pussy.
"This is the most beautiful sight I've ever seen," he whispers.
I feel his gaze on me as heavily as I feel any other part of him. It feels just as heavenly.
Tilting my hips even more, craving the final couple of steps to climax, he presses a simple kiss to my lips.
His hand slides from my breast, down my stomach, and splays his hand on the top of my legs. Using his thumb, he presses on my clit. One touch sends me over the edge.
"Fuck," I groan as an eruption begins in my core. Like a flash flood, it crashes through me with no warning. "Ford!"
I buck against him, meeting him thrust for thrust. He presses and pushes on every part of me that he knows will elicit a spark of ecstasy. He works me over like he wrote the book on how to make me come. In a way, maybe he did.