Chapter 108: Hotel Sex I
The back of her knees hit the bed.
She sat. Looked up at him. Her chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. The city lights painted her skin in shades of gold and silver.
"Olivia."
Just her name. But it carried everything.
She reached for the waistband of his pants. Her fingers were steady now, deliberate. She worked the button free, pulled down the zipper, and he stepped out of them without breaking eye contact.
Now it was just skin. Warm brown against pale cream. Two bodies still learning each other’s language.
He knelt.
Her thighs parted for him like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment. The scent of her—salt and musk and something faintly sweet—rose to meet him. Her hands gripped the edge of the mattress.
"Have you ever—" he started.
"No," she whispered. "But I want—I want you to."
That was all he needed.
He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee. Her breath hitched. His mouth traveled upward, slow, deliberate, tracing a path along the soft skin of her inner thigh. He felt the muscle jump under his lips. Felt the fine tremble that ran through her.
Higher.
Her fingers found his hair.
Higher still.
"Sean." His name was a gasp.
He looked up at her. Her head was tilted back, her throat exposed, the necklace glittering at her collarbone. Her eyes were squeezed shut. He waited.
She opened them. Looked down at him.
"Please," she said.
His mouth found her.
The first touch was a stroke of his tongue, flat and slow, parting her folds. The taste of her flooded his senses—electric, intimate, real. She cried out, a sharp sound that seemed to surprise her as much as it did him. Her hips jerked, but his hands were on her thighs, holding her steady, keeping her open for him.
He licked again. Slower. More deliberate. His tongue traced the shape of her, learning the geography of her pleasure. The small, hard point of her clit. The soft, slick folds that parted for him like a secret being told.
"Oh my god," she breathed. "Oh my—"
He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue. Once. Twice. Her fingers tightened in his hair, and her thighs tried to close around his head, but he held them open. He wanted all of her. Every sound. Every tremor. Every drop.
A third circle. A fourth. He varied the pressure, sometimes feather-light, sometimes firmer, reading her body like a language he was fluent in. When her breathing quickened, he stayed with that rhythm. When her hips rolled up to meet his mouth, he gave her more.
She was close. He could feel it in the way her muscles tensed, in the high, desperate sounds escaping her throat.
"Sean—I’m—"
Sean sucked her clit into his mouth.
She broke.
Her back arched off the bed. A cry tore from her throat, raw and unguarded. And then she was coming apart against his tongue, her body shaking, her hands fisting in his hair so hard it bordered on pain. He felt the rush of wetness against his chin, tasted the sudden flood of her release.
She squirted.
The realization seemed to hit her at the same moment. She looked down at him, eyes wide, face flushed, mouth open in shock.
"Did I just—"
"Yes," he said, his voice rough.
"I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I’ve never—"
He rose up, caught her mouth in a kiss that was half reassurance and half hunger. She tasted herself on his lips and made a small, wondering sound.
"Don’t apologize," he murmured against her mouth. "That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen."
She laughed, breathless and giddy. "Really?"
"Really."
She pulled him up onto the bed, and he went willingly. But before he could position himself above her, she pressed a hand against his chest.
"My turn," she said.
Her voice was still shaky, but there was a new confidence in her eyes. A hunger that matched his own.
She pushed him onto his back. Climbed over him. Her lips found his chest, his stomach, the trail of dark hair that led downward. Each kiss was deliberate, reverent, as if she was memorizing him.
When she reached his cock, she paused.
She was close enough that her breath ghosted over the tip. He was achingly hard now, the head slick with a bead of moisture he couldn’t control. She looked up at him through her lashes.
Her tongue darted out. One small, tentative lick across the head. His hips bucked involuntarily.
She smiled.
That smile was dangerous. It said she’d just discovered something about herself. Something powerful.
She licked again, longer this time, tracing the ridge of the head with the tip of her tongue. Her hand wrapped around the base, holding him steady, and she explored him with the same focused attention she gave to everything that mattered to her.
Then she took him into her mouth.
Wet heat enveloped him. Her lips stretched around his girth, and she took him deeper than he’d expected, her tongue pressing flat against the underside. He groaned—he couldn’t help it—and felt her hum in response.
She pulled back. Took him again. Found a rhythm that was slow and curious and devastating.
"Olivia." His voice was wrecked. "You don’t have to—"
She hollowed her cheeks and took him deeper.
His head fell back against the pillows. The ceiling was a blur. The city outside was a distant memory. There was nothing in the world except her mouth and her hand and the small, wet sounds she made as she learned him.
She was a quick study. Her tongue found the sensitive spot just beneath the head. Her hand twisted gently on the downstroke. The combination sent electricity racing up his spine.
"I’m close," he warned.
She didn’t pull away.
She doubled down. Faster now. Tighter. Her green eyes flicked up to meet his, and the look in them—eager, determined, hungry—pushed him over the edge.
He came with a groan that was almost pained. His release flooded her mouth, hot and thick, and she took it all. He felt her swallow around him, felt the flutter of her throat as she drank him down.