She's talking, and I'm listening. And I'm talking, and she's listening. And we're watching the movie in between.
But we both know we don't want to talk. Or listen. Or watch.
We want to touch.
We want to taste.
The chemistry between us is a crackling static charge.
"Can I use your bathroom?" I blurt, because the situation in my shorts is critical.
"Course. Right down the hall on your left." She points to the hallway and her eyes flit to mine and then away. The eye flitting was the equivalent of me adjusting myself in my shorts—she's trying to relieve the ache too.
When I return to the couch, she's sitting in the same spot, but she's hugging a throw pillow to her chest tightly. I want to be that pillow.
As if she's clairvoyant, she says, "You want to go in my bedroom and finish watching this on my telly?" She doesn't take her eyes off me, but she tips her head toward the TV in the corner. And her eyes convey the same Gemma playfulness and confidence, but her voice doesn't match it. It's quieter than usual. Not quite so commanding, but wishful.
I want to say yes as soon as I hear bedroom, but I wait her out and take another moment's pause so I don't look like a man drowning in need. Because I am a man fucking drowning in need.
What happens next is one fluid motion. Gemma grabs the remote from the couch next to her in one hand and takes mine in the other. She flips off the TV while leading me to the hallway and tosses the remote on the end table. And before I can blink we're behind a closed door. In Gemma's bedroom. It all happened quickly, like high-speed video. One moment we're sitting in the living room stalking each other with our eyes and the next we're standing in her bedroom stalking each other with our hands.
My right palm is on her collarbone, my fingers sweep beneath the strap of her tank top. Testing my restraint against the soft allure of skin. My left hand settles on her hip, low on her hip. So low that my fingers are resting on the upper swell of her ass.
Her right hand is splayed out against my chest. My heart thundering beneath. Her left is curled around the back of my neck making my skin blister out in goosebumps.
Fuck.
Gemma makes me want to break every rule of decency there is.
And I know she'd love to let me. I'm not the only naughty one in this room, guaranteed.
When we lean in to touch our lips to each other, it's slow. Controlled. And that's when the hurried shift happens. Our eyes are locked. Lips so close there's the hint of contact. A tease. That we both pull back from. She cocks an eyebrow in challenge and acceptance reading the silent dare between us. No kissing. At least for the moment. Because touching feels too damn good.
Her hand on my neck releases and a finger lightly traces just above the collar of my t-shirt from the back to the front. I haven't taken my eyes off her, but all my focus is on the ball of nerves gathered beneath my skin following the trail of her finger like a magnetic pull. When she moves north and skims up and over my Adam's apple, I swallow and it bobs against her finger increasing pressure. Which increases intimacy and her breath hitches but she continues her journey. She rounds my chin through a day's stubble and halts at my mouth. Lightly tracing my lips parts them, because breathing through my nose is no longer getting enough oxygen to my brain. I'm taking in deep breaths through my mouth to steady myself. To steady my control. To remind me that I'm present and this is really fucking happening. I'm holding my tongue, until I feel the top edge of my lower teeth skimmed by her fingertip and my tongue wants in on the game and circles the welcome invader.
Her eyes widen slightly, and I decide it's my turn. Finger still in my mouth, I take her wrist gently in my hand and suck her as I slowly remove it. Staring into her I count to ten because the stillness is foreplay like I've never known. This stare, this stillness, is communicating everything I want to do to her. And she's doing the same. And it's fucking dirty as hell. I can feel the vibration between us. There's not enough air in the room. Both of our chests are heaving with effort. And effort looks phenomenal on her. The full swell of her breasts peeking out the top of her tank top is more pronounced, as if her nipples are barely concealed. Her cleavage begging to be divided. And Jesus Christ I can think of about five different ways to divide and fucking dominate it. She licks her lips, an unconscious act driven by desire, but it sets me in motion.
Her wrist still in my hand, I turn her so she's facing away from me and then I drop it. I rake my fingers through her long, silky, thick hair once before gathering it in my hands, twisting it twice and lifting the sexy mass of waves and curls to reveal her neck. A neck I want to taste. A neck I will taste. I hold her hair in place on top of her head with one hand while coaxing her left hand to come up and pin her mane in place so my hands are both free to roam. Goddamn, it's such a small thing, but her standing here, so trusting with her back to me and her hair held up, it's like an offering. A beautiful, fantasy-worthy offering.
I'm not touching her.
Yet.
But, that's about to change.
I bow my head and whisper her name, "Gemma," against the back of her neck. It's drawn out for effect.
And affect it does. She physically shivers. A full body shiver, from head to toe. I run my hand down her free arm starting at her shoulder. The pace is torturous and when my palm brushes the back of her hand I lace my fingers with hers. She squeezes back tightly. The pressure is an arousal gauge. It's peaked. Maxed out.
And because I can't take it any longer, I step into her. My erection greedily pressing into the small of her back. She meets the contact and presses back into me.
Shit, this feels good.
I raise our interlocked hands to the base of her throat, and when I unfurl my fingers, she mimics me and our fingers remain touching, mine alternating between hers. And then I press her palm to her skin. Slowly, so slowly, I guide her hand horizontally until our fingers are beneath both the straps of her tank and bra.
Poised to make our descent. She's right there with me, letting me guide, and providing no restraint. Her chest is rising and falling in greedy anticipation. Because my hand is bigger than hers, even though her palm is flush against her skin, it's the side of my hand overlapping hers that reaches her nipple first.
A rush of air escapes her, and a faint, "Yes," is buried within it.
Her nipple is hard and needy. And when the sensation under my skin is gone I know it's lost to her. She can feel it now. It's hers to please. I stop when I know it's centered beneath her, add pressure and drag her hand back and forth, only an inch to each side, until I feel her ass cheeks clench against me and I know things downtown are heating up.