He hesitated only a fraction of a moment before drawing her a pace down the dark, narrow passage. She heard the click of a latch, and the smell of the linen closet flooded the space: starch and lemon and lavender. His hand at her waist guided her inside; he pulled the door shut and total darkness enfolded them.
His lips touched her ear. His voice was soft and so, so low. “You’re right,” he murmured. His hand smoothed over her bottom, tickled the tops of her thighs. “This is much better. Anything might happen in such darkness.”
The shiver that passed through her, the current of want that powered it, dried her throat to dust. She turned blindly for his mouth, and he ran his tongue along her lower lip. His hands slid slowly, slowly, down her arms. Encircling her wrists, he pulled them behind her, his silent squeeze an order: she would leave them there.
His mouth returned to hers now, his kiss slow and deliberate and thorough as she stood still, all the pleasure points in her body pulsing ever stronger, the imagined restriction of her arms somehow feeding this desire: standing in the dark, blind, willingly trusting him. “What do you want?” he whispered.
“You,” she said.
Without warning, his finger brushed lightly between her legs, making her jump and whimper. He stroked again more firmly, rubbing almost contemplatively at the juncture of her thighs. “What do you want for yourself?”
She frowned. “You.”
He laughed, a low, sexual sound. Between her legs, his light, teasing strokes were not enough; the skirt, while thin, impeded his touch. She strained toward him, and he said against her mouth, “Shh. In a moment.”
He pressed harder now, reminding her body of how empty it was, of the ways he could solve that, the ways he could satisfy her. But she did not want to wait anymore. Even as his hand rubbed and goaded her and the hunger built, that strange panic began to seep back into her thoughts. Take me, Alex. Was it so easy for him to wait? Did he not burn the same way she did?
She reached down and laid a palm on his erection, and when he took a sharp breath, no doubt to chide her for her insurrection, she said to him, “Shh,” and cupped him more firmly. She wanted this. She needed this. His hands curved around her bottom, clenching and squeezing her, lifting her against him, against her own hand. She went on her tiptoes to help him, to help them both. “Have me,” she whispered as she rubbed against him. Have me. Her fingers learned the catch on his trousers and flipped it open.
His cock sprang into her hand, hard and full and ready. He was drawing up her skirts now, pulling them up in great handfuls. Their mouths met and their tongues tangled as his palm met her stocking and smoothed up past her garter, finding the bare flesh of her thigh beneath her thin silk drawers. His other hand he lifted to his mouth; she heard a wet sound, and then he placed his finger to her quim, to the throbbing spot that leapt at his touch and made her swallow another garbled moan. For a moment, as he rubbed her and she writhed, the only sound was of their fevered breathing and the whispering shush of her gown.
She pushed against him, one final demand. His hand slipped back to her thigh, lifting her leg and placing her knee over his hip bone. The head of his cock, startlingly hot, brushed her entrance. “Yes,” she breathed. “Now.”
He slid his hand beneath her drawers and cupped her bare bottom in one large hand, while the other he laid across her back, his hand cradling her head. And then, very slowly, he pushed inside.
Twelve days. He was larger than she’d remembered. She could feel her body’s brief resistance before she remembered how to take him, so broad and blunt, demanding nothing but submission. Very gradually he pushed into her, so gradually, as though every infinitesimal fraction required its own moment of decision, of request and consent. He shifted in the darkness—using the shelves to brace himself, she realized, while he used his own bone and muscle to support her. And then he pushed once more and seated himself completely inside her.
Her head fell back into his palm. She felt pinned, held down, immobilized as he thrust into her steadily, aggressively, filling her without hesitation, his face a darker shadow over hers in the darkness. If the closet had been smaller, if he could have held her even more closely in his grip, she would only have welcomed it. Make me yours, she thought as she gripped him to her. Never let me go.
Her climax came over her quickly, and as fiercely as the emotions in her breast. She clenched around him and he gave a soft, low moan in reply, and then pushed into her harder, and harder yet, and set up a steady, pounding rhythm that made her own satisfaction extend, spreading out in ripples and quivers, ebbing from her like a sweet dream as he sucked in his breath and came.