Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(69)

“When you’re at Phantom,” he says, “you need to be careful.”

“I’m always safe on the hoop—”

“I’m not talking about the hoop. I don’t trust some of the people there, and I honestly hate that you work when I work.” His whole body is a rigid, stiff fortress. If I was tall enough, I would even contemplate giving him the massage, but in my Toms, my head reaches his shoulders.

Little mouse.

Yeah, it fits alright.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him.

His intensity barrels through me. I love it more than he knows and more than I ever realized, his concern only flushing me more.

I add, “Don’t worry about me.” My sweltering body disagrees.

He gives me a look like that’s just not possible. “I’ve worried about you since you first showed up in Vegas and could barely drink a shot.” At The Red Death, when he said the city would swallow me whole.

“Really?” That long? He’s naturally protective, but still, I smile.

He lifts my chin. “I don’t lie.”

“That’s good to know.” My face tightens, realizing that response sounded flat on my account. “So…”

He kisses me, and I almost drop the hangers in a daze. If his eyes are hell, his tongue is heaven, and I would gladly return. I walk backwards with him, my lips stinging and my body aching. His hand falls to my hip, and it crosses my mind—he’s guiding me.

Leading me.

Somewhere.

My legs move of their own will, my brain no longer attached. I hold onto his waist, succumbing to wherever he’s taking me. The backs of my knees hit a bench. And he breaks apart to shut the dressing room door behind him. It’s tiny with a mirror, a wooden bench against the wall and a hook.

“Did anyone…see us?” I pant.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says lowly, his eyes devouring me. He steals the lingerie and hangs it on the hook. I look up. He stares down. A foot of space separating us.

I remain stationary, allowing him to dictate what happens next. The mystery pumps blood through my veins.

Nikolai fingers the hem of my green tank top, and he lifts it over my head, my dirty-blonde hair draping over my bare shoulders, only in jean shorts and a simple blue bra.

My breasts rise and fall with my heavy breath, especially the longer he studies my motions. I remember back to the first night at The Red Death, when he could tell so much about me from so little.

He kisses me again, my lips swollen with the pressure, and his hand slips to my shorts. He skillfully unbuttons them, lowers them, and I step out of the fabric. Now in a bra and white cotton panties. Had I known he would be coming here with me, I wonder if I would’ve chosen a less innocent color.

When he studies me again, I’m careful about appearing relaxed, my arms at my sides, not covering my chest. I want him to touch the barest parts of me—and my nerves shall not stop him. I won’t let them.

“Breathe,” he instructs as he steps near again, his hands on my hips. His tough skin along my soft.

I blow out my usual trained breath. His eyes only say I want you closer to me. In one swift motion, he lifts me up to his abs, my legs split apart around him. I’m too short to even cross my ankles. He kneels on the wooden bench and pushes my back up against the wall.

This is…happening.

I’m uncertain what this is but I’m not opposed to finding out.

He gauges my reaction. “Breathe, myshka.”

“I am,” I whisper. Am I?

He kisses me, and he forces oxygen into my lungs, one of the most intimate moments of my life. Right now. Then his fingers brush along the clasp of my bra. When he breaks the kiss, I pant, “I can’t…believe you’ve already seen them.” I pause. “I mean, my boobs.” I would face-palm myself if I wasn’t clutching his arms.

His lips curve, so close to mine. “You’ve already seen my cock.” He kisses me again, a slow, unhurried one.

In between, I whisper, “That is true.”

He unclasps my bra, the straps sliding down my arms until its all the way off. The cold air bites me and almost instantly hardens my nipples. I can see myself in the adjacent mirror, of how heavy I breathe, of how small I am in his arms. More than half-naked.

It’s one of the most visually stimulating things I’ve ever laid eyes on—and it involves me. The unsexy friend. The girl who doesn’t know passion.

He follows my gaze, and the desire in his movements amplifies. Times a million. He lifts me higher on his body, my breasts lined with his mouth. He tongue flicks over the barbell piercing, sensations bursting in lower places.

“Nik…” I gasp, and as my clutch tightens, so does his. Each finger scalding against my skin. You’re in public, Thora. Dear God.

I rest my forehead on his broad, muscular shoulder, biting my gums to keep these pleasured noises at bay. The spot between my legs throbs now. He drops me some, my forehead now to his chest. He places a hand on the back of my neck and the other rubs the inside of my thigh, teasing.

I rock into him, subconsciously craving a hardness that he can give me.

His teasing hand shifts my panties, and the moment he rubs my clit, my body shudders. His hand tightens on my neck, holding me in place, warming me, protecting me. My lips part, a noise stuck in my throat, as the sensitivity escalates.