One broad hand fits over my stomach, dragging me back until there’s no space between us. His legs are splayed, his jean-covered cock thrusting against my back without a hint of shame, and I rock back and forth, trying to alleviate the pressure, my clit already pulsing.
“Keep your legs spread.”
His rough timbre reverberates through me as his big hand moves between my legs, clasping me boldly through my fleece-lined leggings. As though I’m having an out-of-body experience, I watch, transfixed, as he rubs my clit through the material. He uses three fingers, the pressure he keeps relentlessly steady.
My head falls back on his chest. My hips rise, again and again, to meet the circling of those fingers. My eyes never once leave from ground zero.
“Nick,” I pant, “that feels so good.”
He chuckles against my back. Tears his fingers away, leaving me to protest with an attempt to grab his hand, before I realize he’s aiming for exactly where I want him. He slides his hand under the band of my leggings. Under my underwear, too.
Yes, please.
Nick glides his fingers over my pubic bone, his other hand coming around me to hook a thumb under the waistband to give him more room without the elastic snapping back into place. I feel the first touch of his fingertip to the hood of my sex like a junkie feels the first prick of the needle, my body jolting upward. His ankles hook around mine, keeping my legs from curling inward at the pleasure rioting through me.
We haven’t even had sex more than a handful of times, and yet it’s like he can already predict my every move.
Every need.
Every damn thought that enters my head.
Harsh breathing echoes alongside Gollum being Creepy Gollum on my laptop, and then I can’t focus on anything else because Nick sinks two fingers into my pussy and steals every last thought that isn’t give me more of that.
“C’mon, koukla,” he grinds out roughly, “ride my fingers the way you ride my cock.”
Dirty-talking Nick is my favorite Nick.
My hips swivel down, curling upward, before doing it all over again. He thrusts those fingers up, curling them on every pass. His thumb glosses over my clit, circling in time to the tempo of his magical fingers. Pleasure spikes through me like a ping-pong ball gone rogue. I strain against his legs, my fingers digging into his muscled, jean-clad thighs.
Those two fingers pull out of me, delving through my folds, leaving wetness in their path. And then they’re pressing flat on my clit, rubbing and circling and driving me absolutely mad, and not the least bit concerned that it’s Nick of all people seeing me come undone.
I cry out his name as the orgasm rips through me.
I’m aware of my legs quivering.
I’m aware of how he doesn’t stop touching me until he’s wrung out every drop that he can.
I’m aware of the hard-on against my spine, the way it twitches in Nick’s jeans when I come.
I push Nick’s hands away, then slip off the stool to my knees. Shoving my empty stool to the side, I don’t waste time in reaching forward to the brass button separating me from Nick’s very large bulge.
His hand lands on the back of my head. “Ermione, you don’t need to—”
I pull his cock free from the confines of his jeans, zipper tugged down. One glance up at Nick’s face shows me what he wants, what he needs, and I sink my fingers down to his base. His mercurial pewter eyes blaze with desire, and I don’t look away as I lean forward, balancing my weight on his thigh, and then lick the crown of his dick.
“Oh, fuck.”
English profanity—success strums through me.
I do it again, my tongue swirling over the head, before taking him fully into my mouth. That hand in my hair flexes as Nick emits a needy groan. Again, my heart whispers, make him do that again. I grip the root of him, bringing my hand up as I swallow him down. I work him in tandem, listening to every sound that leaves his mouth as guidance for exactly what he likes. Problem is, he likes it all.
Scratch that. It’s totally not a problem.
His hips lift off the stool; his hand in my hair keeps me grounded in place as he thrusts upward. I relax my mouth, fisting his hard-on faster, tighter, until his hips are churning to match the very same rhythm I’ve set to drive him off the deep end.
“Shit, Mina.” Flicking my gaze up, I watch the veins in his throat leap as he throws back his head. I wish I could see us together now: Nick losing control as he fucks my mouth, me on my knees, the root of all his pleasure.
I cup his balls with my free hand, tugging slightly.
But it’s enough to—
He rips himself free from my mouth, his hands locking on my shoulders to haul me up to my feet. “Take off your pants or I’ll tear them off,” he growls, pushing his jeans down to his feet.
It’s a tough decision to make. I have other leggings. I really don’t need this pair.
But, ultimately, I strip them off myself because it’s got to be quicker than the whole alpha-ripping-thing I’ve only heard about in my audiobooks. Without waiting for another order, I hop on his desk, legs dangling over the edge.
I fixate everything that I am on Nick.
He destroys the distance between us with three long-legged strides. Reaches behind me to close my laptop, leaving only the sounds of us breathing hard, and pushes it roughly aside. The popcorn scatters to the floor, victim to the cause, kernels flying every which way.
Nick grasps my right leg, drawing it up until my heel is planted on the desk and I’m completely exposed. Only, instead of slamming right into me, he drops to his haunches and flicks his tongue right over me without a single head’s up.
My head drops back. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
“Correction,” he drawls, voice thick with lust, “Saint Nick.”
I want to laugh and I want to cry out and it only seems natural that I do a little bit of both when he clamps a hand down on my thigh and sweeps his tongue around my clit, spreading my wetness, adding his own. It’s messy and raw and I’ve never, never, experienced such toe-curling pleasure in my life.
His fingers find me as he stands to his full height. He’s still in his T-shirt, and I go with my gut, fisting the hem and silently ordering him to take it off. He does in one smooth move, then returns the favor.
“No bra,” he husks out when my shirt meets the same fate as his and the popcorn.
“No bra,” I whisper back, my fingers gliding over the ink. Without the night there are no stars. I skim my hands up, cupping my breasts for him to see, tweaking my nipples.
It’s all he needs to line his cock up with my entrance and plunge inside.
We moan together as my body adjusts to the length of him. Nick grabs my knee, holding me open, and pulls back—then thrusts even harder inside. I bite my lip and reach for the ball of his shoulder to keep myself in place.
Nick holds nothing back.
His thrusts are swift and powerful, short and precise. He never lets up the pace, and when I meet his gaze, I don’t want him to slow down. Not now, not ever. He watches me like he can’t look away, and when he finally does, it’s only to stare at where we’re joined. I’m spiraling, threads of anticipation turned into ropes of pleasure, wrapping me up, keeping me here with him when my soul has always run from the prospect of more.
“Fuck, Mina,” he grunts, his features stark as he slams into me, “I’m gonna come. Touch yourself, koukla.”
I slip my hand between our damp bodies. And then I do nothing but feel: the way Nick’s hand trembles on my knee, the way he tilts his hips to make sure I cry out with every thrust, how I finger my clit sloppily, without precision, because I’m too far gone to do anything but beg for Nick to make me come.
Even though I want it, I’m not ready for the force of the orgasm that grips my limbs like anchors mooring me to a dock. I feel it up through my spine and down to my toes, and then I feel Nick release inside of me as he groans my name.
Better. How does it get so much better with him every single time?
Muscular arms draw me into his embrace, my cheek pressing against his sweaty, bare chest. I can’t even find it in myself to care. “I like whittling wood,” I mutter against his skin. “It might become my favorite hobby.”
His fingers draw a random design on my back. “I’ll never be able to look at the church spire without thinking of you.”
“The one inked in your skin or the wooden one?”
I feel his wide smile against the top of my head. “Both. Definitely both.”
30
Nick
“All right, boys, who’s ready?”
I look up from where I’m installing one of the sleek, black styling chairs Mina spent a small fortune on. Standing next to the first one I put in this morning, Mina makes a come-sit-down gesture with her arms to Bill and Mark. Vince already went, the cheeky bastard jumping into the chair the moment Mina even offered to do a little trim.
Bill folds next. “Yup,” he says, rubbing a hand over his messy hair, “I could definitely use a trim.” He sets down the drill he used to screw the five-and-a-half foot tall, silver-embossed mirror into the floor. Six mirrors sit on either side of the room—officially the first furniture Agape welcomed within its walls. Mina spent the entire morning bouncing around, Windex in one hand and a rag in the other, spraying them all down until they shined to glossy perfection. Her excitement is contagious, and even though the boys and I should be heading over to the museum to finish off the rest of the work day, I couldn’t resist getting started on the styling chairs.
After three weeks of putting in the time and sweat, Agape is finally beginning to look like a real salon.
“Come and take a seat!” Mina steps beside Bill and, with her palms on his back, she steers him toward one of the chairs. “What’re we thinking today? Just a trim? Maybe bring down the sides and leave the top a little longer?”
Bill sends me a quick, panicked glance over his left shoulder.
I have no idea what he’s looking at me for—I’ve spent my entire life dealing with hair that will not be tamed, no matter what I do with it.