Happy Wednesday, yall! For me that means a day off and time to write!
Enjoy!
Thanks to you, Fran, and my prereaders!
xxx
-70-
Isabella Swan's body fits against mine like it's what I've always been missing. I've landed on my knees on top of her, the insides of her thighs pressed against the outside of my hips. She's warm and small beneath me, her fists gripping on the buttery lapels of the Armani leather jacket Mom bought me a few birthdays ago.
Her body may be built for sin, perfectly crafted to disarm me in every way possible, but it's her eyes that hold me. Wide and deep, like whiskey mixed with chocolate, both so open and unguarded, yet also desperate in a way that's nowhere near pathetic. Desperate to sort out whatever this pull is between us that neither of us can fight—and fuck knows we've tried our damnedest.
She's not even wearing makeup, and she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
I'm used to women who feel they have to try to be pretty. Thick makeup, overdone hair, tight clothes that show large expanses of skin.
And yet, here Bella is...all covered up except for that fucking shoulder, and I'm already so fucking hard against her.
The playful air has dissipated around us because who really knows how long we've been staring at each other. One of her hands makes its way up to the nape of my neck, never losing contact with my body in its entire journey. And when her fingers tangle in the hair at the base of my skull, I shiver.
No one has ever made me shiver before.
When she pulls me down to her, her eyes fluttering closed and her lips parting to meet mine with hungry fervor, my whole body collapses into her. I can't help it; I melt. I sink so deep into everything that is Bella, and I let myself fall, fall, fall…
Into the softness of the inside of her mouth, the gentle push, and pull of her lips, the rhythm of her tongue that matches that of her hips. The tiny little sighs I can feel fanning over my skin, her soft moans and whimpers, the way her hand in my hair tightening brings a pain that only heightens the pleasure.
Too soon, she's pulling back, her kiss-swollen lips curling in a content smile.
"Hi," she whispers, simply sweet with just an underlying hint of 'fuck me, Daddy.'
"Hi," I laugh.
"We should probably finish up dinner."
"Fuck dinner."
"I'd rather you fuck me." Before I can tell her that, duh, that's the fucking plan, she's talking again. "I hope you like your food spicy."
She gently shoves at my chest, making me lift myself off her, and when I'm standing, I hold my hand out to help her up.
"I'd expect nothing less from you," I joke, a jolt going down my spine when she places her hand in mine.
It would have been so easy to move past our little high school throwback make-out session, slash dry hump and move on to the dinner portion of the evening. Except, when she sits up on the couch, her head is perfectly level with my straining cock, and I'll be fucking goddamned if she doesn't lick her lips, her eyes growing hungry at the sight.
I swear, it takes all my restraint not to come in my pants.
Her hands are quickly on my belt buckle, the leather and metal snapping and clanking in the silence of the apartment, and my brain can't keep up.
I want this. I need this. I crave this.
But…
Shit.
My hips jerk when the tight, black denim of my jeans is pulled down, and my fucking word vomit goes and ruins everything all over again.
"Where's your laptop?"
