Page 49 of Vital Signs
My hands roamed her sides, slipping under her tank to feel the smooth skin of her back, thumbs circling the dimples there. She giggled again into the kiss, breaking it to pepper little ones along my jaw, my neck, her breath hot and sweet.
“You're so warm,” she whispered, nipping at my collarbone. Her fingers danced over my shoulders, tracing muscles I'd earned from years of tension and the occasional gym session to blow off steam.
“And you're freezing.” I flipped us gently, hovering over her now, my palms sliding up her thighs, pushing the hem of her shorts higher.She arched into my touch, another soft laugh escaping as I kissed the corner of her mouth, then her throat, feeling her pulse quicken under my lips.
We moved like that for what felt like hours, but was probably minutes — kisses deepening, touches exploring without rush. Her hands slipped under the waistband of my pajama pants, grazing my hardening cock, but I caught her wrist, bringing it to my lips instead. “Not yet,” I managed, voice rougher now. I wanted to savor her, to make this last beyond the storm outside.
Anya bit her lip, eyes darkening with that mix of playfulness and heat I loved. I trailed kisses down her chest, pushing up her tank to expose her breasts. My mouth closed over one nipple, sucking gently, tongue flicking until she gasped and threaded her fingers in my hair. Her body writhed beneath me, legs parting as I kissed lower, over her stomach, hooking my fingers in her shorts and tugging them down along with her panties.
She was bare before me, already glistening in the low light, and the sight hit me like a punch — want so fierce it bordered on ache. I settled between her thighs, hands gripping her hips to hold her steady. “Desmond…” she breathed, but I silenced her with a long, slow lick from her entrance to her clit.
She moaned, back bowing off the bed. I dove in, tongue circling her with firm pressure, then dipping lower to taste her fully. She was sweet and salty, flooding my mouth as I sucked and lapped, alternating rhythms to draw out her whimpers.
One hand slid up to pinch her nipple, rolling it between my fingers, while the other pressed two fingers inside her, curling to make her thighs tremble around my head.
“Fuck, yes,” she panted, grinding against my face. I ate her out like a man starved, tongue thrusting into her pussy before returning to her clit, sucking hard until her breaths came in short, desperate bursts. Her fingers tightened in my hair, pulling me closer, and the sounds she made — those needy, broken gasps — pushed me right to the edge.
My cock strained against my pants, leaking pre-cum, and without thinking, I rocked my hips down into the mattress, seeking friction against the sheets. It was nothing, just the empty drag of fabric, but it felt likeeverythingwith her taste on my tongue.
She clenched around my fingers, walls pulsing as she shattered, crying out my name like a plea. I kept going, lapping at her through the waves, my own hips grinding harder now, desperate and uncontrolled. The pathetic rhythm built fast — thrust after thrust into the bed, my mouth buried in her sweet cunt, inhaling her scent as she rode out her orgasm.
It hit me then, the release crashing over like the storm outside, cum spilling hot and thick into my pajama pants. I groaned against her clit, body shuddering, hips jerking one last time into nothing but the sheets, soaking myself in the mess of it all.
I pulled back slowly, face slick with her, chest heaving as I looked up at her flushed, satisfied expression. She reached down, fingers brushing my jaw, a soft smile playing on her lips. “That was...”
“Yeah, it was.” I crawled up her body, collapsing beside her, pulling her into my arms. The wet spot in my pants clung uncomfortably, but I didn't care. That twist in my chest was back, deeper now, undeniable. This was more. So much more.
Anya nestled closer, her head resting on my shoulder, one leg thrown over mine as if she were staking her claim. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on my chest, dipping lower to the waistband of my soaked pants. She paused there, and I felt the shift in her breathing — a soft inhale, holding back a laugh.
But when she spoke, her voice was all warmth, barely above a whisper, laced with that playful edge that always got under my skin. “You know,” she murmured, her lips brushing my ear, “I think you might need to change those. Unless you like the reminder of how much you want me.” Her tone was gentle, teasing, a secret just for us. No mockery, just this intimate spark that made my face heat despite the mess I'd made.
I groaned, half-embarrassed, half-amused, burying my face in herhair. “Yeah, well, you can blame yourself. Couldn't help it with you tasting like that.”
She giggled softly; the sound vibrating against me, and pressed a kiss to my neck. Her hand slipped just under the fabric, fingers grazing the sticky warmth without pulling away. “Poor Desmond,” she cooed, voice dripping with flirtation, eyes sparkling when she lifted her head to meet mine. “So damn old, you’re orgasming before I’ve even touched you.” She nuzzled my jaw, her breath hot and sweet, turning the tease into something affectionate, pulling me deeper into her orbit.
I captured her mouth in a slow kiss, tasting myself on her lips from earlier, and she melted into it, her body curving perfectly against mine. The storm raged on outside, but here, tangled in sheets and her teasing whispers, everything felt right — vulnerable, real, and charged with possibility.
Chapter 32
Anya
I’m not entirely sure what time it was when I drifted back to sleep, only that I was warm everywhere — warm in that deep, bone-level way that came from more than blankets. Warm because he held me, because hewantedme, because I fell asleep with Desmond’s arm heavy around my waist and his breath steady against my shoulder as if it had always belonged there. I remember thinking, vaguely and hazily, that whatever this was between us had stopped being theoretical sometime long before last night.
When I woke again, the bed was empty.
For half a second, panic flared sharp and stupid in my chest — until I noticed the other things. The room was still warm. The sheets still smelled like him. And underneath it all, curling its way down the hallway like a promise, was the unmistakable smell of bacon.
I smiled into the pillow.
Sunlight filtered in through the windows, soft and snowy and blue-gray, the world outside hushed and suspended, like a quiet little peace between us, agreeing to give us the morning off. I rolled onto my back, stretching lazily, then padded to the dresser and opened a drawer that clearly hadn’t been touched in a while.
The Yale sweatshirt was absurd. Thick, navy, unmistakably his, the sleeves were long enough to swallow my hands entirely. I tugged it over my head anyway; the fabric brushing my thighs; the neckline slipping just enough to bare one shoulder. I found a pair of socks next — wool, enormous, clearly purchased by someone who believed cold was a personal challenge — and shoved my feet into them, laughing quietly to myself as I stood.
I made my way down the hall like that, socked feet sliding slightly on the wood, hips swaying without thinking to some imaginary music only I could hear. I did a little spin for no one at all. A terrible, enthusiastic shimmy. It felt impossible not to be light.
The kitchen came into view — and so did Desmond.
He stood at the stove, barefoot, shirtless, wearing nothing but sleep pants slung low on his hips, one hand working a pan while the other held a mug. Snow fell thick outside the window behind him, framing him like a piece of art. He looked… domestic. Dangerous. The sight of him like this tugged at my heart.
