Beautiful Secret (Beautiful Bastard #4)(106)
Author: Christina Lauren

Oh, the wet feel of him, the vibration of the words he said over and over I couldn’t quite make out. The sucking soft kisses and heat of his breath on me. Another jolt of disbelief ran through me and I had to reach down, and dig a hand into his hair to anchor me to this room and this floor and this thing that he was doing with his tongue and lips and—holy fuck—even his teeth.

The door to his apartment wasn’t even closed, and I realized it only when he kicked at it, groaning loudly into my skin. His eyes were closed, though, fingers digging into my hips as he sucked at me and spoke into my skin, and I had to prop myself up on my elbows to watch. It would have been a crime not to. The only thing better than what he was doing was watching him do it, as if each flick of his tongue and quiet sound of relief unknotted something profound in him. I wanted to tell him, this, right now, is how I know you’re mine. You’re not thinking about anything but this. I’m not even sure you’re doing this for my pleasure.

But I couldn’t manage a single word let alone a coherent string of them; all of my sounds were gasps or the stilted words of begging for more and like that, and yes, that, and there, and

oh

shit

I’m

coming

His groan in reply shook me, and the way he murmured, “I dreamt of the taste,” made me lose any semblance of control. I fell back, arms above my head, pressing my hips into him, rocking and circling until I went stiff and coiled, my orgasm pulling every muscle together until it consumed me, spreading out from where he kissed me and everywhere; to the tingling tips of my fingers, my flushed face, my curling toes.

I clawed at the back of the suit jacket he hadn’t even bothered to take off, and tried to find the collar to pull him up and over me. I needed him naked and inside. I needed his weight on top, and the feel of his narrow hips between my thighs.

He sat up, not even bothering to wipe his face as he shrugged out of his jacket, loosened his tie, and removed it, followed by his shirt. From where I lay on the floor, I could see the rise and fall of my chest but it was all in my peripheral vision. I wouldn’t be able to tear my eyes from his face until someone physically removed me from this apartment and this man.

I was spent. My skin was humming, muscles loose, brain a giant, blissful, thought-free zone. Niall reached to pull my underwear down my hips, and then my skirt, taking the time to undress me, kissing every bit of skin he revealed. I expected him to climb over me, be inside me immediately—I could feel how hard he was when he kissed my neck and pressed into my thigh. But he surprised me, curling one arm beneath my knees and the other around my shoulders so he could lift and carry me down the narrow hall.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“I don’t relish making love to you on the floor again.”

Sucking at his neck, I said, “Is that what we’re going to do?”

He nodded. “All night, and a good portion of tomorrow.”

I hadn’t really taken the time to examine his bedroom before, having woken up in the room and fleeing almost immediately. The windows were wide and tall, walls white and stark but for a few framed photographs of Ansel Adams prints. Signed. I felt my eyes go wide before looking around at the rest. His bed was enormous, neatly made with dark sheets and a dark blanket. A small bathroom came off at the far end of the room, and a single light was illuminated on a table near the bed. It was a masculine room, not overly decorated.

Niall came up behind me, his hands smoothing from my shoulders down to my naked hips before he pressed his bare chest against my naked back. “Get on the bed.” His quiet command was softened by the kiss he pressed to my neck.

I climbed on the bed and watched him follow me in a predatory crawl, and he settled again between my thighs.

“Come kiss me,” I quietly urged.

“Soon.”

He bent, sliding his tongue between my legs again. It was so different than before, his kisses were slow and gentle, more tender and expressive than directed.

“Either you really like doing this or you’re feeling deeply apologetic.”

“It feels a little wicked, still,” he admitted, kissing the inside of my thigh. “Like it’s naughty to stare at your tits, very naughty to watch you masturbate, exceedingly naughty to put my fingers inside you, but to actually put my tongue just here?” He licked me, humming, “This sweet place only I can see? Well, that feels sublimely naughty.”

“I think you mean possessive.”

“That as well. I admit I like the idea that this body belongs to me.”

“Technically it belongs to me.”

“Whatever you say, my love.”