I inhale, someone else’s touch so different from my own. My fingers spend hours on that area, other objects bumping across that skin hundreds of times a day. I should be immune to touch, should barely feel the calloused ridge of his finger, should play the “cool” card and shoot him a “what else do you have?” look.
But I don’t. Just the slight brush of his thumb brings me to life, pouring sensation through every nerve in my body. He moves the digit again, returning it to my thigh, and I involuntarily buck from the touch, my body instinctively moving closer to his hand, wanting more of what I just so briefly experienced.
“Is this allowed?” he repeats, his eyes on mine, my mouth practically panting as I stare at him, bare-chested between my legs.
“Yes,” I gasp, clenching my inner muscles in an attempt to satisfy the need that is growing there.
He grins, hunger in his eyes, and lowers his mouth to my needy skin. The first touch of his tongue causes my mouth to drop open. My eyes involuntarily close and my head falls back, temporarily blotting out the delicious image of his mouth on me.
I’ve never had a tongue on my clit. Never had the hot, wet sensation, vibrating suction, the delicate play of a talented tongue against pleasure-packed bundles of nerves. It is shocking, how incredible it feels. My nervousness fades, my body relaxing as my legs drop open, giving him full access to whatever he wants. My elbows relax and my upper body collapses upon the bed. Somehow, my hands find their way to his head and I twist my fingers through his short hair. My orgasm is building, growing at a rate faster than I have ever been able to bring it. I worry, for a brief moment, that it will come too quickly, that I won’t have time to enjoy this incredible sensation he is creating.
Then, I stop worrying. I stop thinking. I lose myself in the beautiful experience he is bringing to my body. I don’t think about how close my fingers are to his neck, or the vulnerable proximity of his eyes to my fingernails. I am too engrossed in the arrival of ecstasy. And when it comes, it is the most perfect form of insanity I have ever experienced.
CHAPTER 6
I COME BACK down to earth, my legs shuddering around Jeremy’s head, the orgasm better than anything I have ever brought myself. I have the sudden realization that I have pushed through a door—the door of awareness. I will never enjoy my orgasms the same, will always compare them to this moment. I close my eyes and wonder what sex will feel like. How his cock will differ from my toys. How the unknown, undirected motion will stack up against my stimulated thrusts. I relax my legs, letting them drop from his shoulders, and feel his hands on my skin as he stands, open my eyes to find him smiling, a crooked, sexy gesture that I can’t help but return. “You look pleased with yourself,” I mumble.
I don’t know dating protocol. Is now when I suck his cock? My limbs are too relaxed, my brain too lazy to do anything other than lie here. He falls onto the bed next to me, the mattress jumping at the additional weight, and both of us stare up at the ceiling. He reaches his arm around me, and I lift my head and allow his arm to steal underneath, relaxing back against the strength of his shoulder.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
I smile. “Yeah. This is cool.” I enjoy the moment, the warmth of him next to me, and curl slightly to the side until I am nestled in the crook of his body. “Are you okay?” I blush, trying to find the right word, my personal dictionary too stocked with crude terms to be ladylike. “Do you want to get off or are you—”
“I’m fine.” He presses a soft kiss onto my head. “I didn’t intend to barrel in here and take advantage of you. In fact… I had big plans to be a gentleman.”
“Is that what that peck in the hallway was all about?”
“Peck?” His scoff makes me smile. “From your reaction, I think it worked pretty well.”
“Easy, Casanova.” I poke his side, admiring when my finger hits hard muscle. “Just making sure you don’t get a big head.”
“I understand. Your biting comments are your way of secretly stroking a man’s ego.”
“Stroking is one of my talents,” I tease, the comment earning me a groan, his body rolling into mine, his hand gripping my back and sliding me closer, until I am flush against him. Then, he reclaims my mouth with one, long, heart-stopping kiss.
Ten minutes later, the witching hour near, we say our good-byes. An hour later, there is the slide of dead bolt through metal, and Simon locks me in for the next eight hours.
CHAPTER 7
House Arrest Countdown: 2 Months, 3 Weeks
A WEEK AGO, Marcus had walked through palatial doors to an empty house, the stale smell not overcome by the traffic of maids and repairmen. It felt like someone else’s home, the sweeping banisters, the chandelier that towered thirty feet above him, all staring at him as if unsure of who this man—his clothes cheap, face unshaven—was. He had moved through the entire house, visiting rooms he hadn’t seen in years, nodding to unfamiliar staff as he tried to reacquaint himself with his former lifestyle.
Now, he still feels awkward, as if he is living another man’s life, an imposter in a world he once dominated. It’s the minor things that point it out. The smell of refinement—something his nose is relearning, each scent bringing back memories and a piece of the man he used to be. A cigar, freshly cut, its smoky scent and the change in it once lit. The citrus scent of polish. The whiff of it from his housekeeper’s rag as she wipes a banister. The scent that hangs off Persian rugs, custom drapes, and fine leather. Merlot, the draw of it against his nostril sweeter given the fact that the bottle bears his winery’s name.