Page 21 of The Last Kiss

I’ve never nearly reached orgasm from nipple play before, yet here I am, quivering and desperate for the next touch.

It hits me with blinding clarity.

I’ve never made love before. Not really. Sex, yes. Fuck, definitely.

But love? Slow and delicate, an adventure across the unknown landscape of someone else’s skin. Never.

When I get home, I’m writing a bucket list, putting this at the top and then crossing it instantly off.

“Turn around.”

I do, without hesitation.

His fingers undo the button on my skirt, then the zip, so slow I could die with every notch it undoes. Inch by inch the material, the slinky lining of the pencil skirt, rubs against my hips and thighs as it lowers to the ground. Trailing his fingers in an arc around my body, he brushes them lightly across my breasts. Heaven forbid they get jealous that my ass might get some attention.

“These tights are hellish,” he observes, “Don’t wear them again.”

I nod. I’ve already made that decision.

Something illicit lights inside me though at the prospect that every day I don’t put the tights on I’m doing something he’s told me to do.

I know I’ll never see him again. I also know I’ll never wear one hundred denier tights again.

Lifting my right calf, he slips off my red stiletto; the only splash of colour in my work wardrobe. Sliding off my tights and freeing my toes, he places my bare foot back on the floor and I stand at an awkward angle while my body adjusts to being three inches shorter on one side than the other.

I’m sure he chuckles, but I can’t really hear it clearly as he lifts my other foot backwards and repeats the same, leaving me only in black lace trimmed shorts.

He doesn’t turn me. Doesn’t touch.

Then with the slowest of movements he inches my knickers down. Half an inch one side, then half an inch the other.

It’s sheer torture.

Once they are on the floor and unhooked from my foot he turns me. The expression on his face burns straight to my heart. “Beautiful. Just like I knew.” That smile. It’s everything. Bright like the touch of the sun on the first day of spring.

“Now I’m naked and you’re still dressed.” He shrugs and I roll my eyes. “Your turn. Stand up.”

“No time, ma petite. I need to be inside you.”

Now the French start to hurry. They have an issue with timing.

I shriek as he pulls me down, cradling me in the arch of his arms, pushing me into the mattress with his body. This kiss is hot. Demanding. Unrelenting. I gasp for air.

He moans as I scrape my nails down his back, travelling the length of his spine, feeling his muscles bunch around my touch. He mutters in rapid French under his breath. Pushing back, he unbuckles his belt and steps from the bed, sliding off the rest of his clothes.

Then I see him. Perfect specimen of man that he is. His erection bounces free of the confines of his clothing and my stomach tightens right down low.

Oooooh.

He makes swift work of flicking through his wallet for a condom. The whole time his massive dick just standing to attention between us.

I swallow hard as he crawls back up the bed, caging me again in the safety of his arms and one hand sweeps delicate fingers up my thigh, between my legs, his gaze finding mine when he feels how wet I am.

Biting my lower lip, I try to still the wild beating of my heart.

He pauses though, a frown pulling those brows. “I can’t be inside of you and not know your name. Sex, it’s truth between two people. You want me to lie.”

Well, fuck. Just shoot me in the heart and bury me right now.