Mark Taylor, you are a sex god.
The words hover on my lips, limp and satisfied and sprawled out as I am on his desk, but I have the good sense to hold them back. Mark doesn’t need any more fuel for his ego even if that was the best orgasm I’ve had in… well, ever. Seriously, the man’s fingers and tongue must have been blessed by a fairy or something.
But I’m definitely not telling him that.
What, exactly, I’m going to tell him I don’t know.
First I need to sit up, but my arms are still lost in bliss, the same as the rest of me. I could happily fall asleep right here on the desk, although he probably wouldn’t be amused.
And he’s not talking. He’s simply… staring at me. Shit.
With a mighty effort, I force my elbows underneath myself, propping at least part of my body upright. My legs haven’t yet gotten the message that we need to get moving. My skirt doesn’t magically pull itself back into place, and Mark is still between my legs, so I can’t tug it down without shoving him out of the way.
I’m in the worst position to have an after-orgasm talk. Mark’s expression is completely unreadable, although the bulging erection in his pants is pretty eloquent.
“Hey.” If you can’t say anything, hey will always do.
He doesn’t say anything back, not even hey. His jaw works like he’s trying to decide something. Or he’s grappling with a dilemma. I can’t tell what’s going on behind his green eyes, and it freaks me out. The man just gave me the most incredible climax—I need to see how he’s feeling here.
But Mark’s giving me nothing, at least nothing emotional, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe this was all to put me in my place, on his desk, under his control.
Fine. I get it.
“Look.” I gesture toward the door. “It’s been great”—I give that a tart twist—“but I’ll be going.”
Lombard Street is only a few blocks away, with cabs and several Muni lines. It’s not so late—or early—that my party dress will look like a walk of shame.
“No.”
Finally the man speaks. His expression doesn’t crack, but… but maybe there’s some vulnerability in that one syllable. Maybe.
I raise an eyebrow and wait.
His eyes darken, and with infinite care, he slides his hand into my hair, lifting me toward him. When his mouth meets mine, everything tightens. His hand, his thighs next to mine, and all of me.
He’s not careful now. The way he devours me, his tongue thrusting in my mouth, his chest hard against my aching breasts, his erection pressed against my still-pulsing pussy, is way too wild to be careful. Sex isn’t careful or easy or nice, and this kiss of his is pure sex. I had the most amazing orgasm not five minutes ago, and he’s already pushing me toward another one.
Two world-record orgasms and all without taking off my clothes? Yeah, his sex-god status is pretty much confirmed now.
I hook one leg around his hips, pulling him closer. As hot as this kiss is, I want more. I want that cock of his deep inside me, and I’m not ashamed to let him know it. I feel like I can be as hungry as I want with him.
When the tip of my heel catches in his waistband and scratches the skin beneath, he moans. Oh, he likes that. His moan makes me that much more frantic, more needy.
My body becomes incoherent with desire. My hands pull at his shirt, his pants. My tongue blindly meets his thrust for thrust. My hips seek the anchor of his even as my pussy clenches emptily.
But Mark is a master cryptologist when it comes to this. With a rough jerk, he unzips his fly, his knuckles digging into my inner thigh. Now it’s my turn to moan.
Some last-minute warning sputters through my brain—Condom, you idiot, condom!—but Mark the sex god is on it. He pulls a foil pouch from his pocket and rolls the condom on with fierce impatience. He’s handling his cock likes he’s so worked up he’s angry, his strokes curt and forceful.
I never thought I’d be turned on by Mark touching himself like this, but it’s so goddamn hot I go dizzy. Which is also a first for me during sex.
He grabs one of my hips, his fingers biting me through my dress, then hooks my other knee high on his waist. I’m open, vulnerable, utterly at his mercy, and my pussy quivers at the cool air pouring over it.
Then he slams forward and there’s nothing but heat. He’s not careful, he’s not controlled, and it’s fucking wonderful. I flex my knee, the better to meet every pump of his hips. We’re practically rutting here, grinding out God knows how many years of sexual frustration between us.
In only a few seconds, my skin blooms with sweat. It drips down my back, between my breasts, reminding of how animalistic this all is. He’s sweating too, and in the open vee of his shirt, I see one drop travel all the way from the base of his throat to meander through the hair down below before disappearing completely.
Lucky droplet. My tongue tingles with the need to follow its path, catch it before it hits his happy trail.
I can’t though, not with the mad rhythm we’ve set between us. I can only concentrate on holding on. My orgasm comes on like a supernova, annihilating everything in its path but creating new and wondrous sensations in the chaos left behind.
His climax grips his whole body, every muscle shuddering as his cock jerks against the rhythmic clenching of my own orgasm. His expression becomes… beautiful isn’t the right word, but it touches my heart as if it were.
We both fall onto the desk, me backward and him forward. My head hits with a bang I wasn’t expecting, my knees are at a weird, dangly angle, and my back wasn’t meant to bend like this. But with Mark above me, panting like he’s just run up California Street at a dead sprint, it’s almost comfortable. He’s not any more in control of this moment than I am.
I want to reach up and push back his hair, to put some tenderness into this moment, because it feels like there’s too much in my heart. I have to give him some.
But that’s a mistake. He pushes himself up before I can make it.
He doesn’t look at me at first, wiping his brow instead. He zips up his pants, adjusts his shirt. Only then does he meet my eyes.
Maybe there’s some tenderness in his gaze. Maybe. Or maybe I’m only wishing for it.
Which would be really stupid of me.
He runs one thumb along my cheekbone, and when he pulls away, the pad is black with mascara. Great. My makeup is melting, I’m covered in sweat, and my dress is hiked around my waist. Yet I still feel amazing.
With a tiny smile, he tugs down my dress and helps me off the desk. He still hasn’t said anything, but maybe that’s for the best. I don’t know what I want to say to him either.
He takes my hand and leads me to the door. “That was… You are amazing.” He brushes his lips over mine, and there’s definite tenderness there.
Or is it gratitude? My mind and emotions are messy, raw. I need to get a handle on them before I do something stupid and forget this isn’t about affection. Mark doesn’t want it, and I can’t afford it.
“Thanks.” Only the word is as vulnerable as I can’t be.
“You’ll stay here tonight.” He doesn’t even offer me a choice, but I’m so worn out—the party, the ride back, the intense desk sex—I’m grateful for it. Even the thirty-minute ride across the park would be agony right now.
So I let him lead me away.