His fingers dip inside my jeans, sliding over the outside of my panties, easing, toying, playing. He’s not even between my legs and I think I might die if he doesn’t touch me where I want him.
“Touch me,” I plead, thrusting my hips, grabbing his shoulders. “I’m begging you.”
He drops a tender kiss to my lips. “You’ll never have to beg me. I always want to fuck you.”
“But you said you were making me wait.”
As his hand slides between my legs, his fingers slipping over the wet panel of my panties, he growls, “I have other ways to fuck you.”
Lust consumes me. It cocoons me. It wraps me up, and this is all I am—the fevered wish to come. “Fuck me with your fingers.” I’m absolutely pleading and I’m fine with it. “I need you so much. Please.”
At last, he puts me out of my exquisite misery, and I whimper as he slides his fingers across me. “Oh God. Oh my God.”
His shoulders shudder, and he pushes closer to me, his lean body pressed against my side as his fingers find a fast and glorious rhythm, sliding across all my slippery wetness, seeking my swollen bundle of nerves then driving me wild.
My eyes squeeze shut, and my body burns white-hot. My vision blurs, and it’s as if I’m buzzing with electricity.
Noises and wild sounds fall from my lips. And from his, too.
Yes, please. So hot. Come for me.
He doesn’t have to ask twice for that.
I’m nearly there. I was on the edge back on the dance floor. I was hovering when he pushed me to the wall. Now I’m climbing up that last cliff. As his finger flies over my clit, he thrusts another inside me, and I dip down on his hand, seeking more friction. I’m so far gone I barely know where I am anymore. My knees buckle, and he grips me tighter so I don’t fall. In seconds, all the rapturous sensations twist inside me, and I shatter.
I break, falling apart into pieces of beautiful, lovely bliss.
I’m not quiet.
I cry, and I moan, and I sing out his name, and that hand behind my head clamps down on my mouth, covering up my loudest cries. Ripples of pleasure flood every corner of my body. I pant and I moan, and when I somehow find the ability to open my eyes again, he’s grinning at me like he has a naughty secret.
He lets go of my mouth.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re even more beautiful than I remembered.”
“I am?”
He nods. “Yes, but especially when you come.”
I smile dopily. “Guess I got to have dessert tonight after all.”
He grins. “Three out of four then.”
Then I reach for him. But when I rub my palm over his erection and say, “Let me,” he shakes his head.
“No. I want to torment both of us.”
And when I go home that night, I want him more than I ever did before.
Chapter Eleven
Gabriel
The next night we go to the Museum of Modern Art. As we wander through the paintings, we talk about the places we’ve been and what’s to come.
“Tell me where you want to go when you explore the world again,” I say as we stop in front of a Magritte.
She nibbles on the corner of her lip, not answering right away. Then she says, “Kyoto, to see all the temples. Prague, because it sounds like a city of fairy tales. And the Maldives, for when I want to be someplace where I can’t be found.”
I file away her answers, storing them safely in the drawers in my mind, which have now been reopened to her. It’s as if I’ve stumbled upon a photo album that I once thought lost for good, only now there are new pages, new pictures, new memories to make. “Are you trying to escape from the world, Penny?”
She shakes her head as we round the corner. “Not lately. But if I wanted to escape, I’d want to be in one of those idyllic huts over the water,” she says, sweeping her arm out wide. Her eyes sparkle as she talks. “You know the kind?”
I nod, picturing a trip to a faraway island. “Where the water is crystal clear, and the sand is like sugar, and the sky stretches in an endless expanse of blue.”
She sighs contentedly. “Yes. That. Take me there.”
I loop an arm around her waist. “I’d take you anywhere.”
And then I kiss her, deep and hard, in front of a Kandinsky. She tastes like caramel and memories and all my dirty dreams.
When the security guard standing in the corner clears his throat, we move along, snickering as we go. “Too bad this isn’t a sculpture museum. I’d tug you behind some huge statue and have my wicked way with you.”
She tsk-tsks me. “Defiling a noble institution of art as part of your torment plan. I’m shocked.”
“We were always quite accomplished at PDA, if memory serves,” I say, running my hand along her spine as we stroll through another gallery. “Remember Papabubble?”
She stops and cocks her head, seeming to slide back in time. Then her eyes widen. “The caramel shop. Oh my God, the caramel shop.”
“You loved caramel. You said it was your favorite.”
“It is.” She drops her voice to a whisper, angling closer to me. “You practically had your hand in my skirt while they were making candy behind the counter.”
“Practically?” I say, acting offended at her recounting of the time I circled my hands around her waist, and then lower still, during our visit to the artisanal caramel shop in Barcelona. “I’m pretty sure it was actually.”