Good Time(25)

He steps towards me, one step, two. When he’s standing directly before me he takes my face in both hands and kisses me. It’s soft and unhurried and perfect, his head dipped to reach my lips, me raised on my tiptoes to meet his. I’m pressed along the length of him, my hands gripping his forearms for leverage. The brush of his clothing along my naked skin reminds me that he’s still fully dressed while I’m naked and needy and ready. It’s delicious, the feeling of being exposed to him. My heart races as his lips press against mine, his tongue sliding between them, exploring my mouth as his thumbs caress my cheekbones. The stubble on his skin scratches mine, the slight abrasion some kind of direct line to my clit.

It’s good.

It’s every bit as good as I remember from last night, which is impossible because it’s also better than I remember. Better than any kiss ever.

Then he’s stepping back, the kiss broken as he moves away, his thumb swiping at his bottom lip as he does. I lick mine in response.

“On the bed,” he instructs. “Flat on your back.” He says it in a tone that tells me he’s reminding me that this is how I asked for it. It’s a bit sarcastic but he’s eyeing me with nothing like sarcasm so I crawl onto the bed and position myself in the center before lying back and watching him. He’s watching me like he’s got all the time in the world. It makes me feel filthy to be naked while he’s dressed. A good kind of filthy, like I belong to him to do with as he pleases. I find I like that. I like it very much.

His hands move to the buttons on his shirt, making slow work of slipping them free.

“Spread your legs.”

I swallow hard as I move my legs apart. My heart is racing and I pray to the sweet sex goddess Aphrodite that this is really happening and that he doesn’t have a sadistic plan to make me masturbate in front of him while he watches, fun as that sounds.

“Condoms?” he asks with a glance at my nightstand.

Thank you, Aphrodite, Eros, Himeros and Pothos. Thank you, PornHub and—wait. He didn’t bring his own?

“Is that why we didn’t have sex last night? You didn’t have a condom? For fuck’s sake. I had twelve in my handbag. We really need to learn how to communicate better.” I use my toe to point towards the small clutch I was using last night, now lying on my dresser.

“Twelve, huh?” He abandons unbuttoning his shirt and picks up my handbag.

“I had a lot of faith in your stamina, okay? It’s a compliment.”

“So you left the house last night intending to sleep with me?”

“I left your office yesterday afternoon intending to sleep with you. I spent all afternoon primping and picking out an outfit that made my butt look good.” He doesn’t need to know I’ve been visualizing his sexual prowess since I saw him in the lobby of the Windsor earlier this week. A girl has to have some secrets. Plus it makes me sound like a nyphomaniac and I’m not, really. More of a situational nympho. The situation being Vince.

“Hmm,” he murmurs in response to that, but his eyes trail slowly over me from head to toe before he turns his attention back to my handbag. He’s cataloging my handbag with the same interest he did my bedroom, which is fine because there’s not much in there, and besides, I’m naked so I don’t think anything he finds is going to embarrass me right now.

“Chapstick, lipstick, hair thingy.” He lays them out on my dresser one by one. “Condoms,” he announces, pulling them from my bag like a gaggle of clowns piling out of a tiny car. They’re still in one long strip, each one attached to the next. He removes them slowly, so that they unfold one by one, until an eighteen-inch-long strip of condoms is dangling from his fingertips once he’s pulled them free of my bag.

Okay, seeing it like this twelve might have been ambitious, or a poor use of space planning for such a small bag. Like when people who buy tiny houses insist they need space for forty-seven coffee mugs. Five would be sufficient in both cases.

He rips one off the end and tosses it onto the bed before dropping the remaining eleven onto my dresser.

“An individual packet of lube?” Vince holds that up, brows raised in interest, a smirk pulling at his lips before he tosses it onto the dresser. “You don’t have any issues with lubrication.”

Oh, God. Okay maybe I was wrong about the potential for embarrassment.

“It was a free sample,” I offer. Is it me or is he taking forever to riffle through my things and take off his pants? “It came with the box of condoms.”

“Hmm.” He hums again then goes back to rooting through my bag. “A travel toothbrush and two packets of single-use toothpaste.” Yeah, it isn’t me. He’s taking forever. Also, how much more shit did I cram in that bag? It’s barely big enough to hold a sandwich. Fuck’s sake. I wiggle my toes and exhale, trying to be patient.

“Another hair thingy. Forty dollars in cash, a Tennessee driver’s license and a credit card.” He pauses and I hope that’s the end of my handbag inventory. “Are you planning on staying?”

“I haven’t moved!” I protest, thumping one of my spread feet against the mattress.

“Staying in Nevada,” he clarifies, amused. “You have thirty days to change your license and register your vehicle with the state. The fine for not registering your car is a thousand dollars.”