Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(48)

We say nothing, and that’s rare. All we do sometimes is talk.

When he breaks the kiss, he speaks. “You’re stunning.”

What he doesn’t say reverberates between my ears. He doesn’t say you look stunning. No, he says you are stunning.

With him, I feel that way, inside and out, especially as he takes me out to the dance floor. Somehow, I manage to say in a dry husk of a voice, “So are you.”

He pulls me close and grinds against me, his hard body making his intentions clear. The temperature in me rises into the stratosphere. I don’t think we’re dancing. It’s foreplay in the middle of this low-lit club, with thumping music and beautiful bodies writhing and twisting and crawling around each other, with sweat and music and alcohol. Lights flicker in swaths, so we only see parts of each other. I make out the cut of his jaw, the wave of his hair, the strength of his forearms, visible thanks to his rolled-up cuffs.

He yanks me closer. I don’t know how he finds any more space between us to fill, but he does, erasing any millimeter of distance.

I rub against his thigh. He grinds back. I tug him impossibly closer. He growls against my neck. My hands thread into his hair. His grab my ass, curling around me.

We might be the most indecent couple on the dance floor, and we are swimming in a sea of indecency. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a black-haired woman wearing a top that’s falling so low I can see her nipples. She dances with her partner. Her lips are parted, and it’s like she’s on the cusp of an orgasm. I flick my gaze to the other side, and two men grind against each other, heads thrown back. Even though I can’t hear their sounds above the music, I can tell from their lips they’ll be escaping any second to finish off.

I stare at Christian. “I think everyone here is about to fuck.”

He runs his hand up the back of my neck and tugs my hair. Not hard, but hard enough to send a shudder through me. “Yes. Everyone is.”

He slams his mouth to mine and kisses me hard once more. Like I belong to him. In this moment, I do.

In a flash, we’re gone.

He was right. I don’t want to go to a hotel. All I want is to take him back to my house, even though it scares me, even though it feels far too intimate.

But my body has taken over for my head and my heart. Everything else has the night off except my libido, a dark and dirty thing that’s making all my decisions.

We tumble out of the cab, and I open the green door that leads into the courtyard. His hands are all over me. He’s touching me everywhere: my waist, my breasts, my hair. He can’t seem to stop. His lips travel across the back of my neck, and I can’t walk straight when he does that. I’m buzzing all over. I’m drunk on him, and yet I want to have another vodka tonic. I want to be his vodka tonic and to have him drink all of me.

As soon as we’re inside, my purse and my keys and my phone spill to the floor. Our hands rip at each other’s clothes, undoing buttons, tugging at zippers.

I yank his shirt out of his jeans, and he brings down my panties, saying, “I thought about you all week long. It kills me to go this long without being inside you.”

I swallow, nodding. I don’t know how we reached this point. I don’t know how we became too desperate, too frenzied that we’re about to fuck against my door. All I know is that’s who we are.

I push his boxer briefs down his hips and his hard length springs free. I wrap a hand around him, thrilling at how hot he feels. Hotter than the last time, and somehow, hungrier too.

He groans. “I don’t know if there are words to describe how much I need to be inside you right now.”

“Don’t describe it. Show me.”

In one sharp, hot thrust, he’s inside. The sound I make is carnal. I might groan for days. It feels spectacular, his hardness against my wetness. He yanks my leg, hooking it around his hip and driving into me. We go quickly, like horses at the race, tearing around the field, aiming for the finish line. His lips come down on my neck, his teeth connecting with my flesh, nipping and biting.

“Harder.”

“My teeth or the way I’m fucking you?”

“Both,” I pant.

He bites as he fucks, and I’m filled so completely by him that I’m nothing but feelings—delicious, intoxicating, ecstatic feelings. I’m all the glittering lights in Paris, all the thumping music in the club—I’m everyone’s desire right now. I’m being fucked the way everyone else longed for.

I get to have that coveted feeling, to bathe in erotic bliss as this gorgeous, brilliant man consumes me against the door of my house.

Consumed.

The thing I fear most.

The thing I feel now.

The thing I want badly.

I’m consumed by his body inside mine, consumed by the way he wants me, and most of all, I’m consumed by my own profound longing for him, a longing that finds a wild sort of peace in this pleasure. I’ve avoided this, guarded against it, but now I’m giving in. I want to feel every single thing with Christian.

We twine around each other, all hot and twisting limbs. I feel a tightening in my belly coiling higher, until the pleasure bursts and I cry out.

He follows me there with rough, hard thrusts as my back slams against the door, as his noises drown out all the sounds in my head, and I know he’s as lost in his climax as I am.

Sometime later, I blink open my eyes and we’re still standing at my door, disheveled and sated, cheeks red, clothes askew. “Come to my bedroom.”