You're not supposed to be here. You shake your head sadly as you watch the steam rise from your mug of hot chocolate. The hot chocolate he made for you. The hot chocolate that he called his mother for help with because the first batch got scorched when he was telling you how much fun snowboarding down a certain trail was.

 

Or maybe it scorched because you kept asking him to repeat some words, too busy focusing on the snug thermal shirt stretching over his chest when he gestured to care about what he was saying.

 

Right. Like you really came up here to snowboard.

 

Of course you did, you remind yourself. You went on a shopping spree with the man at your side so you could get everything you would need for a weekend in the mountains. You had no idea why you needed so many sets of thermal underwear, considering you only plan on going out on the slopes once. If at all. You'd be perfectly content to stay wrapped up in a thick fleece blanket next to the fireplace with his hot chocolate warming your hands and wearing his baggy sweats as you try to thaw out. The bastard had the nerve to knock you down into the snow and even though it had been freezing and your jeans had gotten soaked you made snow angels.

 

Because he asked. And because he had laughed and told you that his was bigger you had shoved a snowball down his shirt.

 

But that's forgotten now. He made you hot chocolate.

 

Hot chocolate. You smile and take a sip and though it's not the best in the world it's warm and sweet and you know things will be okay. Because someone cared enough to make you real hot chocolate.

 

The one you miss would have dumped a packet of Swiss Miss into a mug with too much water…

 

This trip is supposed to cheer you up. Your mind kicks you and you look over to the man at your side. His best friend. Your best friend, really. The only one who gets why you're so depressed when you have to stay at home. Alone.

 

The only one who ever tries to make you feel better. Whether it's a lunch date or a night of sappy chick movies that he hates or dragging you along to whatever he's going to do, he obviously hates to see you moping around.

 

"How is it?" he asks and you realize that he's already asked that three times.

 

"Perfect," you promise with a smile. Even though it isn't, really. But he's there and he's really trying and that makes up for the lack of marshmallows.

 

"If you've thawed out later maybe we can drive down to that diner we passed," he suggests. He's sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, sprawled out and perfectly comfortable. You didn't even know until just now that he's got one of your feet in his hands, gently rubbing it between his palms.

 

"I thought this joint had a pantry full of food," you remind him. You want to pull your foot away. Despite your years of playful flirting he's never touched your foot. You assure your conscience that it's not like his hands are on your breast.

 

Your breast… A moan unexpectedly escapes you and you take a sip of hot chocolate. Your eyes close as you picture his large hands cupping your breast. His long fingers are rough from years of playing guitar and lifting weights and you know they would fell so damn good against your skin.

 

What the fuck is your problem? You've never had such thoughts about him before and even when your girlfriends vocalize their fantasies about him you always laugh and say the thought disgusts you.

 

You fucking hypocrite.

 

"You're gonna fix me a big supper right? I'm so hungry I could eat a horse."

 

You have to laugh because when he gets away from the paparazzi and the fans he turns into such a big country bumpkin. You playfully push at his chest with your foot and immediately wish you hadn't when his hands slide to rest on your calf. He doesn't seem perturbed about the fact that his fingers are against your skin but damned if your heartbeat hasn't accelerated.

 

"What do I get out of cooking you supper?" you ask.

 

He grins. That cocky grin that you love to hate. The one that tells you he's about to say something inappropriate that would have your boyfriend cussing. "What would you want to get out of it?"

 

You. You're surprised at the thought because you've never wanted him before. And before you can stop yourself your mouth opens and you murmur, "You."

 

"Me? In what way?" One hand slides up to rest behind your knee and fuck when did that become an erogenous zone?

 

"Naked," you blurt before your censor kicks in.

 

"Naked, huh? You wouldn't be rolling my ass out into the snow would you?"

 

He's so fucking smug. You can tell it in his voice and in that grin. "No, I wouldn't throw you outside."

 

"What then?"

 

"Justin," you breathe, surprised when his fingers graze your thigh and he kneels in front of you. The movement is so quick you're powerless to stop it. Not that you would but you would've liked the opportunity. You whine when his hand slides back down your leg and he leans close, supporting himself on the hearth. "You know…"

 

"Don't go getting' shy now." His stomach is against your knees and when he wets his bottom lip you part your legs so he can move closer. "He ain't here."

 

"I know." You hate him for pointing out the obvious. "If he was I wouldn't be with you."

 

"Would you?" he murmurs and he's moving closer. Suddenly you've slipped into dangerous territory and you have no idea how to get out of it.

 

Or if you even want to.

 

"Well?" he asks. "Would you be with him? Would you have stayed in L.A. in that rambling fucking mansion while he messed with songs downstairs or would you have come up here to hang with me?"

 

You don't even think. "You. I'd be with you." Your mug is shaking in your hands and you're grateful when he takes it away from you. God what are you doing?

 

"I don't want to take you away from him," he whispers. "I just want…"

 

"This weekend. That's all I want too," you whisper. Just this weekend without studio sessions and movie shoots and voiceover work and things that are more important than you. A weekend without cell phones ringing and emails pouring in and waiting in bed for the man your love.

 

"You really want this?"

 

He would fucking ask you. He would put it all on you. The bastard. The amazingly sexy bastard that's smoothing your hair from your neck. "Do you?"

 

"If I didn't I wouldn't be asking you." His lips are against your ear. His fingers are doing delicious things to your neck and his breath against your skin is warming you better than all the blankets, fires and hot chocolate in the world ever could.

 

"I want it Justin."

 

Apparently that's all he wanted because now he's kissing you. It's not the short sloppy kiss that you've seen him give his girlfriends. It's slow and sensual and his lips keep pulling at yours and his hands are at your waist. You break the kiss long enough for him to pull the baggy sweatshirt away from your body and when his callused palms spread over your back you lean against him, eager for more.

 

The blanket is pulled away but you don't see where it lands, too busy nipping at his lips. His thermal shirt is bumpy under your fingers and you whimper softly when he tugs you from the hearth. You keep your lips against his as he falls back onto the rug, flicking your tongue over his. You barely feel the floor beneath your knees.

 

"Fuck," he gasps when you settle over him. His hands smooth over your back before gripping your ass. Pressing you down against the hard cock straining inside his jeans. You're momentarily amazed that you can feel it through the sweats that are cinched to your hips but you've seen him naked before and smirk at the memory.

 

"I want to," you tell him. One hand finds your breast and it's better than you thought it would be and your forehead falls to his shoulder. "Damn..." You grab hold of his thermal shirt and tug. "Off."

 

He chuckles and sits up. You gasp; he's harder than you thought. You let him take off the shirt and skim your fingers down his chest. You want to take time, to examine each contour of muscle but you're impatient. You trail one finger along the line of fine hair that leads to the waistband of his jeans and grins when he shivers. Next time, you tell yourself, you'll go slower.

 

You've got his jeans unbuttoned when he tweaks your nipples. The sensation has you rocking against him and when he arches up you shove the offending denim down his hips. His cock lays against your stomach briefly before you're being rolled to your back. The rug covering the hardwood floor is warm against your back and you arch up eagerly when his hands move to your waist.

 

"Anxious much?" he asks, that smugness in his voice. Like it's an honor that you get to fuck him. But when you look into his eyes you can tell that he's the one feeling honored.

 

"Please," you gasp, shaking your leg free of the sweatpants. After your hot shower you ignored any form of undergarments and you're glad when he looks down and licks his lips. One finger trails your slit and you arch towards it.

 

"So fucking wet," he whispers. His lips cover yours before you can make a sound. Your hands move to clutch at his shoulders but he catches your wrists in one hand, stretching your arms against the floor above your head. You whine in protest. You want to touch him.

 

"Justin…" His finger is driving you crazy. He keeps tracing your slit but avoids your clit each time and his thigh is resting over your hip, keeping you from moving. "Fucking… Shit!"

 

"I kept thinking about what I'd do to you if I ever got to fuck you," he tells you. He alternates between sucking on your bottom lip and licking the curve of your neck. Between his tongue and his finger you're already at the brink and his words are only pushing you closer. "I had all these fucking plans about eating you out until you couldn't stop screaming and taking you from every position I knew."

 

"Fuck, Justin," you gasp. He'd thought of being with you before? You can't form that many words though so you settle for a simple, "Fuck me."

 

"I am baby, I am." His face looms over yours and you groan when you feel his finger slide away. You focus on his face - normally blue eyes nearly black and moist lips parted and cheeks flush. He tilts his head back and sucks his finger into his mouth. Your eyes widen at the unexpected eroticism of the movement and when his grip on your wrists loosens you sit up, catching his lips in a fevered kiss as soon as his finger his gone.

 

His hands fall to your waist, pulling you into his lap. You try to reach down and stroke him but he shakes his head.

 

"If you do I'll blow like a fucking teenager," he warns when he sees the question in your eyes.

 

You smile because the words are almost endearing. Like he's wanted you so bad for so long and now that he has you he can't last very long. It's empowering. It scares the shit out of you.

 

He slides the tip of his dick along your slit and you manage to stay still, whining when he presses against your clit. Your gaze slides down and you watch his fingers squeeze his cock and wish he would just get it over with. He's going to kill you. People have died from too much stimulation, right?

 

Just as you're about to start begging for him to fuck you his hand moves to your hip and he pulls you closer and…

 

Fuck.

 

Your body shakes and you struggle to hold onto his shoulders and try to slide down until he's in you completely. But he's moving slow. Fingers digging into your hips he's guiding you the way he wants you to move. He's going too fucking slow.

 

"Justin," you ground out, feeling his muscles bunch beneath your fingers. Your nails are probably digging in too sharply but he doesn't seem to care. You try to ease your grip. Then all of a sudden he's fully buried inside you and you're allowed to move.

 

"Fuck babe," he gasps. His hands slide over your body, fingers pulling at your nipples and palm cupping your neck. He manages to caress and manhandle at the same time and you love it. Teeth bite at your lips and a tongue flickers over your earlobe.

 

You rock against his thrusting hips, surprised at the noises that escape your mouth. You don't remember being this loud before but sex has never been this intense, this needy, until him. You don't stop to think about that fact, though.

 

He keeps whispering how tight you are, how slick you feel. His words are just another way of pushing you closer and you move faster, your need to get off more urgent than anything else at this point.

 

"That's it, ride me hard," he entices. He stops moving his hips and you growl in protest, hating the smirk on his face. "C'mon baby, ride me."

 

You push at his shoulders, squealing sharply when he leans back. His skin glows in the light of the fire and you're briefly transfixed at the way his eyes glitter. But then his cock twitches deep inside you and you comply with his request. You marvel at your sudden switch to wanton and know that he could ask for anything now and you'd gladly say yes. Anything. As long as he keeps letting you fuck him.

 

His hands keep grabbing your ass, squeezing and urging you to move faster. It's all you can do to remember how to breathe and when he suddenly bucks beneath you, reaching deeper than before, you're certain you see stars. You tense up, clutching at his chest and your mouth dropping open in a silent scream. You're vaguely aware of him arching beneath you and his short, satisfied growls as your body begins to shudder.

 

When you fall against him he catches you, chest sweaty beneath your cheek and arms trembling as they wrap around you. You manage to tilt your head slightly to receive his kiss, moaning at the friction his body creates as he continues to work his hips against you. If you could move a muscle you would gladly roll over and let him take over but even drawing a breath is almost too much.

 

He tenses suddenly and growls long and hard, fingers digging into your skin and you feel him come inside you. Your name is a tortured gasp and you're surprised at the tenderness he exudes after such frantic sex. His hands cup your cheeks and he whispers your name and you begin to worry.

 

You're worried because you wait for the guilt to creep between you and him. You wait for it and even after you're able to move and he's pulling the blanket over your cooling bodies it still hasn't come. You're worried because you haven't felt the urge to push him away and seek the solace of your room.

 

You're worried because you're boyfriend is thousands of miles away and you just fucked his best friend.

 

And you want to do it again.

You're not supposed to be here. But you don't care anymore.

It's been months since her snowboarding trip with Justin.

 

Two months, one week, four days. The rarely used mathematical whiz in her mind keeps up with how much time has passed since that fateful night. That wonderful night of pure unadulterated passion that had moved from the living room of the cabin to the kitchen to the bedroom. His bedroom.

 

She shivers now as she attempts to focus her attention on the task at hand. Decorating the Christmas tree has always been so exciting and wonderful, ever since she was a kid and got to help choose where ornaments would go. But now, gazing at the twinkling lights, she can only think of how the golden light of the fireplace had glinted against perspiring skin. And though she's made love to her boyfriend many times by the light of the tree she is currently decorating, all she can picture is the twinkle in his eyes.

 

She hasn't avoided him. Those first few times he'd dropped by had been a little awkward but they had promised each other that their affair had been a one-time thing. Okay, several times over two days. But it's in the past now. And she likes it that way.

 

Right?

 

Sighing, she steps back to look over the tree. He should be home from New York soon. The roast in the oven has been timed to be ready just as he's walking through the door and she plans to greet him with a smile and a kiss and a glass of his favorite wine. She's tried so hard over the past two months to not act guilty but she can't help but wonder if he's noticed a change in her.

 

Deeming the tree perfect, she gathers the tissue paper and empty ornament boxes, stowing it all in the large plastic bin that she stores the ornaments in. For now she makes do with pushing the bin out of sight behind the couch. As she's turning out the overhead lights she hears a car in the drive and smiles, hurrying into the kitchen to pour his wine and remove the roast.

 

She can see the outline of his trim body through the frosted glass of the front door and swings the door open for him. Truly happy to see him, because it's been almost a week, she throws her arms around him and catches his lips in a tender kiss. "Damn, I missed you."

 

But something's wrong.

 

Rearing back as the cologne assaulting her senses triggers a torrent of steamy memories, she winces when she sees Justin's look of confusion.

 

"I just saw you yesterday," he laughs, fingers reaching to lightly trace his lips, which glisten with her lip gloss.

 

"I thought you were someone else."

 

"Obviously," he snorts. "He's not back yet?"

 

"If he was do you think I'd be throwing myself at you—Don't answer that," she groans when his eyebrow rises in challenge. But she knows he won't bring up the fact that she threw herself at him plenty of times two months ago. He's not quite that immature. "Sorry."

 

"I didn't mind. Okay if I come in or are you planning to throw him on the floor and fuck him before he can put down his suitcase?"

 

"Not hardly." Their days of clawing at each other before the door is closed have passed. She hates to admit it, even to herself, but their lovemaking has become rather predictable. Dinner. Few glasses of wine. Cuddle on the couch. Kissing followed by a soft suggestion that it's time to go upstairs. Nothing at all like the impromptu— She attempts to cut off the memory but it continues and she turns to go back to the kitchen, praying that Justin's not thinking of the front door of the cabin he had pressed her against. Hoping that he's not remembering how they had managed to keep their bodies connected while undressing and meandering back to the bedroom. Cheeks flushed with heat, she leans closer than necessary to the pot of steaming potatoes, knowing they'll be ready in five minutes.

 

"Pot roast? Damn, girl. You told me you didn’t know how to cook." Justin's got the glass of wine she poured and is sipping it as he leans against the counter.

 

"I told you I don't like to cook," she corrects, replacing the lid of the pot before moving to pull the prepared salad from the fridge. She tenses at the sound of a car door slamming outside and shoves the large bowl onto the table, hurrying to greet her boyfriend. She double-checks to make sure it's him before throwing herself into his embrace and she reminds herself than the arms around her are the ones she belongs in. "I missed you, Jace," she whispers between kisses, fingers easing his leather jacket from his shoulders. He releases her long enough to shrug out of it and she tosses it aside, blatantly aware of Justin's gaze as he watches from the kitchen door. Let him watch, she decides, hands sliding into the perfectly coiffed hair that always feels like silk. "Hungry?"

 

"Starving," JC enthuses, catching her close for another kiss and she sighs at the taste of his favorite cinnamon gum. "Just let me get my shit upstairs. You staying, J?"

 

"If there's enough." Justin glances at her as JC moves to the stairs.

 

"Of course there's enough." She grits the words out but smiles sweetly as she goes back into the kitchen. She gathers an extra plate and salad bowl and yanks open the drawer to retrieve silverware.

 

"You don't want me here, do you?" he asks softly, reaching past her to pull another wine glass from the cabinet. "You fucking hate when I hang out here now, Claire. Don't even," he warns when she opens her mouth to argue. "You're always polite and say it's no problem but it really burns you up. Why? Afraid I'm going to have one too many drinks and brag to JC that his girlfriend is an amazing fuck?"

 

"I know you'd never do that," she whispers. And she does, because he values his friendship with her boyfriend. And she hates herself for giving in to the temptation and causing him to potentially ruin that friendship.

 

"But you still worry," he adds, grabbing the bottle of Cabernet and filling the glasses. "Don’t worry, Claire. I can keep our secret."

 

She's saved from replying by JC's arrival. Conversation quickly falls into the work he did in New York on his album and she's glad that he seems enthusiastic. So many times he's sounded so downtrodden over his work and it's nice to see a spark in his eye as he talks about the tracks he recorded. Claire inputs a comment when she can, but leaves the brunt of the discussion to the men who know the industry. She watches as the potatoes and salad disappear and wryly notes that there isn't enough of the roast left to worry about saving. She leaves the men to their talk and their wine, busying herself with loading the dishwasher. And when JC scrapes his chair back she bites the inside of her lip. Maybe Justin will take the hint and leave.

 

But there's no hint for him to take. Instead, JC crosses the room and gives her a series of tender kisses. "Dinner was great, baby," he murmurs. "I'm exhausted so I'm going up to crash."

 

"Sweet dreams," she whispers, leaning close for one final kiss, knowing he doesn't see the flash of disappointment in her eyes. Jamming the last of the silverware into the tray, she thinks ruefully of the gold lace negligee she had purchased that afternoon as a welcome-home gift. It will have to wait until tomorrow, she decides, glancing to the ceiling when she hears the master bedroom door close.

 

"Need any help?" Justin offers, all eagerness and helpful as he always is and she laughs bitterly.

 

"Yeah, go upstairs and give him some of your energy so he can fuck me. Can you manage that?" she asks, slamming the dishwasher closed and starting the pre-rinse cycle. She's not prepared for the feel of his hands on her, lurching when his fingers curve around her hips, pulling her back against him.

 

"No, but I can make sure you get fucked tonight." His voice is a sultry whisper that sends her heart fluttering.

 

"Justin," she gasps. Has he lost his mind? Does he think she's lost hers?

 

"Tell me you haven't thought about us," he hisses, breath hot against her ear and she shivers at the feel of his fingers slipping beneath the hem of her shirt. "Tell me you don't look at a fireplace and think about riding me in front of one."

 

"God, please…" She brings her hands up to cover her flaming cheeks. "We can't. Especially now. He's right upstairs."

 

"And he's already dead to the fucking world."

 

Warm fingers are sliding up her sides, leaving goose pimples on her skin. She knows he speaks the truth. JC undoubtedly collapsed in bed as soon as he was undressed and a war starting on the front lawn won't awaken him. But she can't. She can't give in and risk being caught… Turning, she bites down hard on her bottom lip to quell the whimper when his hands curved around her bare breasts. "I… He… You…" She's faltering. "Let me just check on him."

 

He nips at her earlobe in response, thumbs brushing over her aching nipples before allowing her to slip away. Her steps across the kitchen are shaky and she knows her knees are about to give out but she hurries to the stairs, not believing she's about to repeat a past mistake. But she is.

Upstairs, she sees that JC is fast asleep already, clothes in a heap by the bed. She slips into the bathroom, discarding her clothing in the hamper and reaching for the negligee she bought that afternoon. She pulls it on and adjusts it over the curves of her breasts and hips before dragging a brush through her hair. Her bare feet are silent on the carpet as she tiptoes through the bedroom, not daring to look at the man snoring softly in the bed.

Justin's on the couch, open bottle of wine and two glasses on the coffee table. When she joins him she sees his eyes light up and her ass barely touches the couch before she's pulled into his lap. "I'd never go to sleep without giving you what you need." His voice is barely a whisper as his lips hover over hers.

 

"Please don't," she whispers, arms circling his neck as she leans into his kiss. She doesn't want him to compare himself to JC. She doesn't want promises that he could be better than the man she's chosen to be with. She almost snorts at that thought – how can she say she's chosen to be with JC if she's currently making out with Justin?

 

His kiss is liquid fire that spreads from her lips throughout her body and unbidden, the memories flood her mind. The searing kisses that were unexpected but left her weak-kneed. The slip of his tongue over her skin that turned her into a towering inferno of desire. How can he do this to her? How can he be so fucking good at this that she craves his body as an addict would crave another hit? His rough fingers pull at the hem of her negligee and she gasps into his mouth when she feels his jeans against her crotch, writhing against the firm ridge that nestles so perfectly against her.

 

"God," she breathes, hands sliding through his hair.

 

"How long has it been for you?" he asks breathlessly and she knows he can feel the heat of her desire.

 

"Two months." She lightly nuzzles his neck and is not surprised that she remembers the spot just below his earlobe that makes his entire body seize up when she lightly suckles it. "Two months, one week, four days…"

 

"Same here." A mirthless chuckle rumbles his chest and his hands slide between them. Claire gasps when she feels his fingers slide over her slick heat, finding her ready. The sound of his zipper is ungodly loud in the quiet of the room and she waits impatiently as he pushes his jeans down slightly. Then his hand is on her hip, roughly jerking her forward and guiding her down his length.

 

"Oh…" she hisses, dragging the one syllable into a soft growl as she settles over him. She digs her nails sharply into his shoulders, remaining still once he's fully inside her. But he won't let her grow accustomed to the feel of his thick cock filling her completely. No, his hands are tight on her hips, pulling and pushing hurriedly. "Jus…"

 

"I can't make it last," he manages between harsh breaths. "It's been too fucking long…"

 

"Come on, Jus," she encourages softly, tightening around him with each thrust as she bounces in his lap. His head falls back, Adam's apple jumping in his throat and she forgets all about her own pleasure, reveling in the power she holds over him. She knows she could torture him if she wanted. But she doesn't. She wants to help him come. She doesn't care if he spurts like an overeager teenager. She wants to see his face contort, wants to feel his entire body tense and tremble, wants to see him bite down hard on his bottom lip. She braces her hands on his shoulders, fingers curling in his red t-shirt as she increases the rocking of her hips. "Come for me, Justin…"

 

"Almost." His voice is a strained whisper and he arches beneath her, fingernails digging harshly into her hips.

 

"I want to feel you come inside me," she urges, unable to tear her eyes from the way the lights from the tree reflect in his electric blue eyes. Just watching the passion rising in him is enough to bring her to the brink. She can feel it and she chases it, pussy clenching around him so tightly he can barely move within her. And she's so focused on his pleasure she doesn't care when she hears his breath hitch in his throat. She doesn't care when he yanks her down roughly, lips brutal against hers as his body shudders and a series of low growls vibrate in her mouth. She hisses in delight, riding out his orgasm as she feels his cock twitch repeatedly, heat filling her as he whispers her name over and over again.

 

Moments pass, feeling like a few brief seconds but at the same time it feels as though hours have swept by. Her body cools and she glories in the heat of him, whining when she shifts and feels him, still hard and ready, filling her to completion. Her fingers sweep the perspiration from his brow as his powerful kiss turns gentle. The hands still clutching her hips relax, sweeping delicately over her body.

 

She vividly remembers this. The gentle sweetness that exudes after frantic, hurried sex. She was so surprised by it after that first time, but when the tenderness had returned in the middle of the night and she had fallen asleep curled in his powerful arms, his lips pressed sweetly against the top of her head, she had gloried in it.

 

"Your turn," he whispers, fingers easily tugging the top of her negligee down over her breasts. He cups them together, plucking gently at her nipples until they're so tender she cries out softly. He shushes her, lips finding hers again as he guides her so she's lying back on the couch and she whines into his mouth when his dick withdraws from her. Her negligee is bunched at her waist but she barely notices it, arching as his lips sweep down her neck, easily finding the most tender places on her skin that elicit the most powerful moans.

 

"Goddamn," she gasps as his mouth closes over one tight nipple. One of his hands slips over her mouth to muffle her cries, the other pressing down on her hip to keep her still. Not being able to move only heightens her arousal and she makes do with holding onto his shoulders, doing her best to muffle her sharp whimpers before they reverberate in her throat. One hand flies from his shoulder to clutch at the back of the couch as she wriggles in vain beneath him. She whines at the feel of his hand sliding between her legs, the orgasm she lost earlier now back in full force when she feels him spread her, thumb tracing the length of her slit. She jerks in surprise when he lightly brushes her clit, staring when he pulls his mouth from her breast to offer a smirk.

 

His gaze locks with hers as his thumb leans on her clit with firm pressure. He's silently urging her to work with him and she starts to rock her hips upward, spreading the roaring fire that he created with just one finger. And when his other fingers slip within her slit to stroke the inside of her pussy, she feels her entire body spasm. A scream of delight dies low in her throat and she keeps her gaze firmly locked with his, finally allowing her eyes to close when he drops his head to her stomach. He licks and nibbles at her navel, fingers tight against her jaw to keep her from crying out as he trails his kisses lower. And when he buries his face between her thighs, teeth finding her clit, she knows it's possible to die from pleasure.

 

Her hands flutter, hoping to find something to grasp for leverage as her body convulses with her fast-approaching orgasm. She finally makes do with her own body, palms curving around her breasts. Her fingers pluck at her nipples, drawing the tortured peaks out even further as her breath comes in sharp pants, body arching upwards. His hand seems to be everywhere, stroking her thighs and teasing the entrance of her pussy before sweeping down the length of her legs. His teeth and mouth never leave her clit, alternately suckling and biting, driving her right to the brink before relaxing into tender sweeps of his tongue. She gives in, head falling back and pressing her hips upward to prolong the sweet torture. The pleasure rips through her and she doesn't feel her fingernails digging into her own skin and when she comes it's violent, lifting her off the couch until only her shoulders rested against the warm cushion beneath her. Then tension he's created within her gives way to shuddering delight and she grinds against his mouth to prolong the pleasure, whimpering as he guides her to rest fully on the couch once more. His hand falls away from her mouth and she gasps his name, fingers sliding into his hair as he kisses his way up her body. She slides her legs over his as he presses a flurry of kisses along her neck, over her jaw before their lips crash in a kiss. She makes sure to draw every remnant of her essence from his mouth before relaxing back against the couch, now completely sated.

 

"I don't want to leave," he whispers as his hands gently cup her face. "But I should…"

 

"I know. That was… Jus…"

 

"Shh." His index finger press against her lips briefly before he offers another quick kiss. "Call me when you can," he whispers before sliding away. The zipper of his jeans and the clink of his belt buckle are absurdly loud in the silence of the room and before she can drum up the words that would thank him he's gone.

 

Which leaves her wondering how she's come to this. And how she's supposed to stroll upstairs and crawl into bed with her boyfriend like nothing's happened.