She lifts a hand to my chin, runs her fingers over the light stubble there as she blinks at me with those midnight eyes of hers, dark and deep and just a little out of focus.
She’s back in subspace now, her mind and body totally attuned to mine. To what I want. To what I need. As if my dick wasn’t hard enough at this point, that realization has my body pretty much screaming for relief. Instead, I force myself to stand there, motionless, while she learns me. It’s a little late considering the state she’s in, but it’s that state that makes it impossible for me to push her. That state which has me longing to give her anything, everything, I can.
She’s slow and a little clumsy—more signs of how far under she is—but she still feels amazing as her fingers stroke my jaw, my ear, the back of my neck. Then they’re sliding down my chest to the waistband of my pants, slipping beneath my suit jacket and skimming my sides, until she’s tracing light patterns on my spine that have me growing impossibly harder.
I reach behind me with my free hand and grab hers. I bring it to my lips, press long, lingering kisses to her palm before licking my way slowly up her lifeline. Her fingers curl into her palm and I nip lightly at their tips before sinking my teeth into her mound of Venus, the fleshy part of her hand at the base of her thumb.
That cuts through her haziness and she squeaks—in protest or invitation, I’m not sure. So until I am sure, I settle her hand next to her hip, pressing her palm against the glass. And then I’m kissing her everywhere, trailing my lips across her cheek, over her jaw, down the long, slender column of her neck.
When I reach my fingers—fingers I’ve used as both a collar and a mind game tonight—I release the hold I’ve had on her for so many long minutes. Aria makes a sound of protest at the loss and it’s a beautiful sound, maybe the most beautiful one I’ve heard from her so far.
I spend a long time on the hollow of her throat, on the delicate hills and valleys of her collarbone. Kissing, licking, tasting her. Breathing her in. Claiming this part of her.
Trying my damnedest not to claim every part of her as instincts I didn’t know I had are screaming for me to do.
Instead, I nose at the indention at the base of her throat, lick a long, deep stripe against her skin there. She tastes as sweet as she smells and I want to spend hours, days, learning every inch—every millimeter—of her skin.
But she’s shaking, strangled cries coming from deep in her throat, and I know I’ve pushed her as far as I can right now. Pushed myself nearly as far. Weeks from now, hell, maybe only days, I’m sure I’ll look back at this moment and think how far we still had to go. But for now it’s enough. More than enough.
“I’m going to undress you,” I tell her, my fingers going to the buttons of her crisp, white shirt. “I want to see you.”
“Yes.” It’s half-order, half-plea, and my hands start to tremble as I work the first button through its hold.
My hands never tremble. The fact that they’re doing so now—I’m not sure what to think, how to feel.
Because I can’t do anything about them, I ignore them, choosing instead to get to work on the rest of the buttons. And while there’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to rip the blouse straight down the middle and to hell with the consequences, I find the control not to. More for Aria’s sake than my own.
In seconds, her shirt is on the floor beside us and I’m reaching behind her, unfastening the lacy white bra that is about as useless and flimsy as an undergarment can get and still be called a bra. Not that I’m complaining. I can see her areolas through the thin lace—dark pink and aroused and so, so gorgeous. The sight shoots straight to my dick, ratchets up my own want another level or ten.
Then the bra is gone, too, and she’s standing there in front of me, bare from the waist up.
Bare and vulnerable and beautiful. So beautiful.
I lean forward, press a soft kiss to first one breast and then the other. She shudders at my touch, at the brush of my lips against her sensitive skin.
“Sebastian.” I’m not sure if it’s a warning or a plea, but this time I’m too busy licking across her nipple, sucking it deep into my mouth, to answer.
Aria lets out a high-pitched, strangled sound that slams through me like a freight train. Her hands come up, clutch at my shoulders. Patiently, I remove them, press them palm first against the glass beside her hips.
“Keep them there,” I order and though her hips buck against mine, she does what I tell her. At least for now.
And then I’m nipping at the round, soft undersides of her breasts, kissing and sucking and licking every inch of her that I can. She’s so soft, so sweet, so goddamn beautiful, that I can’t resist.
More than once I suck hard enough to bruise—I want her to remember this moment when she looks at herself in the mirror in the morning. I want her to remember me as she takes her shower, brushes her teeth, makes her morning coffee.
Just the thought has me biting a little more sharply than I intended. She cries out, and I murmur an apology into her skin as I soothe the small hurt with my tongue.
But Aria is shaking her head back and forth against the glass. “Do it—” Her voice breaks and she sucks ragged gulps of air into her lungs. “Do it again.”
Fuck.
Those three words are all the encouragement I need. I nip at her again. And again. And again. Each time I stroke my tongue against the small wound to stop the sting, but the tenderness doesn’t discount the fact that I’m marking her. Leaving a trail on her breasts, on her body, that even a blind man could see.
The trail stops at the waistband of her skirt and suddenly even that small scrap of material is too much of a barrier. I want to see all of her—her stomach, her ass, her gorgeous sex, wet with desire. With need. For me and what we’re doing together.
I shove her skirt down, help her lift her legs through it, one at a time. And then it’s off and she’s standing there in front of me, wearing nothing but a pair of black peep-toe stilettos, fishnet stockings, and the line of bruises that I gave her.
She’s the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.
Her eyes are still closed, her head turned so that her hot cheek is resting against the cool glass. Her hands are pressed flat against the window but her back is arched, her breasts on erotic display.
I drop to my knees in front of her, press hot, open-mouthed kisses down her stomach and over her abdomen until I come to her sex. I want to bury my face there again, to breathe the spicy-sweet scent of her into my lungs, into my soul. To lick her to orgasm a second time. A third time.
It’s too tempting a thought to resist, and I lean forward, lick a stripe up the center of her sex.
Her eyes open for a moment, just a moment, and I can see her sinking even further into the abyss. It’s a gorgeous sight, one I don’t even try to resist. Instead I turn my head, bite sharply at the inside of her thigh.
This time she doesn’t cry out. She doesn’t jolt, doesn’t jump, doesn’t do anything but spread her legs a little more.
I take instant advantage of the access, thrusting my tongue deep inside her once again. And then I’m circling, stroking, sliding in and out of her sex as I relish each strangled cry, each shiver she can’t control.
It doesn’t take long before she’s balanced on the edge again. I know it won’t take much, a flick of my tongue, a press of my thumb, a slow, hot breath against her clit, to send her over.
And so I pull away, sit back on my heels. And wait several, long excruciating seconds for her to come down from the edge.
“Sebastian?” she asks after a minute or so, her voice husky, broken and so, so hot.
“I’m here, baby.” I stroke over her hip, down her thigh, then slip a hand between her and the window so that I can cup her ass. She relaxes at my touch, melting into it even as fine tremors continue to shake her body.
Her response shakes me, ratchets up my already unbearable need right to the breaking point. My own hands are trembling, my heart pumping like
a piston and for too long, all I can think about is lifting her up, wrapping her legs around my waist and slamming into her. Slamming home.
But there’s more I want to do to her, more I need to do before I’ll let either of us come.
It’s that thought that grounds me, that helps me regain the control I’m so desperately close to losing.
And then I’m sliding my hand down the curve of her ass, slipping my thumb between her cheeks to rest against her anus. She gasps a little, but doesn’t pull away, and so I begin to stroke her gently, firmly. My other hand is on her breast now, squeezing her nipple between my thumb and forefinger.
I lean forward, bury my face in her sex and just breathe her in for long moments. But she’s restless, tense, her whole body stretched taut on the razor’s edge between desperation and satisfaction. I know I should send her over, should put her out of her misery, but I’m not ready for it to end yet. Not when she looks so good, feels so good. And not when I want to see how much higher I can take her.
I lick my way along her labia, relishing the way she presses her hips forward in a silent plea for more. In answer, I thrust my tongue and my thumb inside her at the same time.
She gasps, starts to fall forward, but I hold her in place with the hand I have resting on her breastbone. Hold her still so that I can touch and kiss and take every part of her. So that I can drive her right back to the edge without ever hurtling her over.
Again and again and again, I tease her with the promise of release. Of ecstasy. Again and again and again I stop right before she climaxes.
“Sebastian. Sebastian. Sebastian.”
My name is on her lips, my scent on her body and I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want Aria right now. Leaning forward once again, I press wet, open-mouthed kisses to her stomach, her mons, her clit.
She screams this time, sobs, as her body bucks wildly against me, trying to throw me off. And through it all, her hands stay planted firmly against the glass, as she was instructed. But no matter how well she submits, no matter how well she stays with me, at this moment I’d be a fool to think the rest of her body was screaming anything but no, no, no. Her breathing is agitated, her hips jerking against me, and her whole body is heaving and shaking like she’s just come off a day-long crying jag.
I’ve pushed her too far.
Anger surges through me at the realization. This is my fault. Aria is in this state because I took her here. She’s so responsive, so susceptible to what I want to do to her that she slid further down the rabbit hole than I had ever intended her to. I slipped up on my own control, didn’t monitor her closely enough. I pushed her too far, too fast.
If I could reach it, I’d kick my own ass.
But I can’t and doing so wouldn’t solve Aria’s problem anyway. Not in the state she’s in.
“Aria.” I say her name firmly, quietly. Then wait to see if she responds. If she even hears me past the hammering of her heart and the high, keening cry that’s coming from deep in her throat.
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t acknowledge by so much as a look that she’s heard me. She’s too far gone, her head thrashing back and forth, hips rocking, body undulating. And damn me, but she’s a sight to behold. Flushed, shaking, desperate. Her body bruised and aching. She was born for this, her body soaking it up like rain. Born to submit. Born to control.
But she’s too far gone and no matter how beautiful she is to me, I can’t leave her like this. So locked in her own head, her own body, that the rest of the world has all but ceased to exist.
“Aria.” I say her name more firmly this time as I place one hand on her abdomen, use it to press her hips back against the window and hold her firmly in place. It’s obvious just from the short time I’ve known her that she needs boundaries to buck against. But she also needs someone to hold her to those boundaries. To hem her in when she pushes too hard against them, as she’s doing right now.
But she needs someone to take care of her, too. To coddle her and soothe her and put her needs first. Which is why I use my other hand to stroke her hip, to calm her down.
“I’m right here, Aria,” I whisper in between gentle kisses to her thigh, her hip, her stomach. “I’ve got you.”
Eventually, she stops writhing against me and her breathing calms down to some semblance of normal. But when her eyes open slowly, I can tell she’s still under. She might be looking down at me, but she’s not seeing me. She’s in deep, her eyes glassy and just a little bit lost.
Fury at my own stupidity flares to life once again. I beat it back, bury it deep—there will be time enough for that later. For now, I need to take care of her.
Cupping her breast in one steady hand, I rub my thumb across her nipple at the same time I thrust two fingers deep inside her and crook them, looking for her G-spot.
It only takes a few seconds to find it. And then I’m rubbing against it, once, twice, then again and again as I flick her nipple with one thumb and circle her clit with my other.
She comes then, with a gasp and a shudder and a cry that rips all the way through me. I don’t let up, not yet. Instead I work her through first one climax and then a second one, only stopping when her body once again sags against the window—this time with relief instead of desperation.
I push to my feet, gather her in my arms. She feels so fragile now, so delicate, and I realize, suddenly, that she always was. Aria might act bold and brash and ready to take on the world, but inside she’s soft and breakable and desperately in need of care.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, pressing kisses to her temple, her cheek, her lips.
She doesn’t answer and a quick look at her eyes tells me everything I need to know. She’s not back yet, not really.
I glance around the room with a muttered curse, for the first time noting that there’s no damn couch to sit on. No place for me to hold her against me and gentle her back to herself. Figuring one of the despised chairs will do, I start to pick her up.
She stops me with one word. “More.”
Before I can process what she’s asking, she’s got herself wrapped around me like a limpet, her arms and legs and body intertwined with mine.
Instinct has me resting a hand on her ass, pressing her hips against my still-hard dick. “You want to come again, baby?”
I hope that’s exactly what she means. I’d love to spend the next two hours, the next two days, doing nothing more than making her come. Just the thought has me gritting my teeth and fighting my own orgasm. Something that becomes exponentially more difficult when she presses a hot kiss to the skin right below my ear and whispers, “I want you to fuck me, right here against the window.”
Shit. Damn. Fuck. She learned the lesson too well, has gone from not being able to ask for what she wants to demanding it as her due.
I nearly come from that knowledge alone, not to mention her words and the images they evoke. But she’s in no shape for this right now, not after what I just did to her. Later tonight, tomorrow, any other time but right now, I’d be on her before the invitation even left her mouth. Right now, though, she’s too vulnerable and the last thing I want to do is break her.
“Aria.” I pull her arms from around my neck, try to step back. But her leg is between mine, wrapped around my calf, and she’s not letting go. Not letting me back away.
“Don’t tell me you don’t want me.” She rubs herself against my dick in an invitation I have no desire to refuse.
“Of course I want you,” I tell her, and though my hands are on her hips, I can’t work up the strength to push her away.
“Then take me.” It’s her turn to press kisses to my jaw, her turn to use her tongue to trace designs on my skin.
I force myself to pull back, to look at her eyes. Damn it. She might be playing the part of the seductress, but she’s still under. She’s just giving me what she thinks I want. “I can’t. You’re—”
“I’m what?” Her fingers start working on the tie I loosened hours ago, undoing the knot and slidin
g it slowly from beneath my collar. “Horny?” She drapes the tie over one of her wrists, wraps it around a couple times. I can’t take my eyes from it, can’t get over how good the teal silk looks against her skin. “Aching?” She pulls the fabric tight, knots it so it won’t fall off. Then uses that same hand to reach for mine. “Wet?” She puts my hand between her legs, covers it with her own. Then strokes both of our fingers gently through her still-drenched folds.
Fuck.
“I don’t understand what the problem is,” she tells me, spreading her legs so we can both watch what we’re doing. “You want to fuck me. I want you to fuck me. Isn’t that enough?”
It should be. It really should be. I reach for control once more, reach for the strength of will that’s always been a part of me. A part of this. But then Aria whimpers, the seductress disappearing as her eyes glaze over with tears and she pleads, “Please, Sebastian, I need you inside of me. I need—” the last of my control snaps.
Grabbing her wrists, I pull them above her head, wind the ends of the tie around her unbound wrist and then knot them together.
“Turn around,” I order as I shrug out of my shirt.
When she doesn’t move immediately, I start to bark at her to do what I asked. But her attention is fastened on my chest—and the phoenix tattoo that runs across my pecs. She wants to touch it, I can tell, but I’m about ten seconds away from blowing my whole fucking wad and her stroking my chest isn’t going to do anything but make me come faster. So I grab the hands she’s even now lowering, yank them back above her head. And then I spin her so that she’s facing the window again, her hands and cheek, her breasts and sex pressed up against the glass.
Far below us, Vegas glitters in a kaleidoscope of yellow and blue and green lights. It’s a famous view, one that’s almost impossible to overlook, but here, now, I barely notice it. All I can see and feel and think about is Aria.
I make quick work of unzipping my pants, yanking my wallet out of my pocket. I pull out a condom, roll it on with hands that are still shaking way too much.