I think she feels it—she must.
She leans forward, bending a little at her waist, and moves her hips in tight circles, rubbing right against where my body is screaming for contact.
If feels fan-fucking-tastic.
I bend my knees and move with the music, even though my focus is solely on Dee.
I don’t mean to brag . . . well, okay . . . I’ll brag. I’m a good dancer. It’s a lot like screwing, finding the right rhythm, staying attuned to your partner’s moves and responding accordingly.
I’ll rip the tongue out of anyone who’d let this get out, but when I was a kid, my mother made me take lessons. Drew, Steven, and I all did. Not the flashy, sequined costume kind—thank Christ—but the ballroom kind. It was a year or two before Alexandra’s cotillion. Yes—in our social circle, girls have cotillions, and knowing how to dance like a gentleman is a must. We all hated it. Drew and I had a detailed plan to run away and live in the Museum of Natural History until the danger passed, but it didn’t work out.
Still, as miserable as I was, I’m grateful for those lessons now. Because a kid who can dance is a f**king pansy, but a man who can dance is smooth—sophisticated.
For hip-hop club dancing, you need some natural rhythm, something that poor son of a bitch Steven is sorely lacking. But for a guy like me, with some inherent ability and former training? I kill it on the dance floor.
The synthesized portion of the song takes over—faster, more primal, with a strong bass. Dee straightens up and wraps her arms around my neck, behind her. I have one hand on her hip, holding her steady as I thrust against her. My other hand creeps under her jacket, to the taught, warm skin of her stomach.
I feel the vibration of her moan as my hand strokes and climbs higher.
When the music slows down once more, Dee turns in my arms, facing me. With her heels, we’re almost nose-to-nose. I’m caught in the dark gaze of her eyes as the singer croons about traveling around the world, staying young, and winning love.
The beat picks up again, but our eyes hold. Our bodies move against each other, hot and needy. My fingers dig into the flesh of Dee’s ass, pushing her harder against me.
To the lyrics of a man not knowing how lost he was until he found what was missing, Dee’s palm caresses my face. And it feels tender and intimate.
I lower my head and press my lips to hers. And she’s right there with me, opening for me—warm and wet—taking everything I have to give and kissing me back with equal ardor. Both my arms wrap around her, the dancing forgotten. One hand stays on her lower back, while the other buries in the softness of her hair as our mouths move together. Her hands cling to my shoulders, kneading the muscles, pulling me to her.
Have you ever had a moment when you think to yourself, this is going to change everything? From this point on, there will be a before, an after, and this event will forever divide the two?
Most people don’t. They’re too caught up at the time to recognize the significance of what’s happening.
That’s how I was.
But looking back now—this was it. That first, scorching, perfect kiss. This was the moment that would determine the rest of my life. And nothing after it would ever be the same.
We walk back to Dee’s apartment. Stumble might be a more appropriate word.
Dry-hump would fit too.
I have the overwhelming need to kiss her every few steps—to pull her to me, or press her against the wall of a building to gain the necessary friction. And she’s in no way passive—dragging her fingernails along the bare skin of my abs, dipping her hands into my pants to squeeze my ass. We’re like two hormone-driven teenagers, making out in the school hallway, who don’t give a shit if they get caught.
We eventually arrive outside her apartment door. I stand behind her as she fiddles with the double locks—grinding my pelvis against her ass, cupping both tits in my hands, massaging and teasing those beautiful attributes. Once we’re inside, Dee crashes against me, standing on her toes to give me an intense, wet, tongue-tangling kiss. Her hands are all over my hair, pausing in their exploration just long enough for me to rip the jacket off her body. Then I bend low and make quick work of those minuscule shorts, leaving Dee wearing the white tube top and a string thong, with a scarce lace triangle.
I thought Delores was beautiful clothed, but naked—she’s breathtaking. Long, lean legs, narrow hips, a tight stomach with skin so soft it feels like a caress. She’s not overly sculpted; she has a yoga body—slim with the suggestion of firm muscles just below the surface. On my knees, I unbutton my shirt. Dee bends at the waist and pushes it off me, her hands grazing my back’s physique appreciatively.
“God, you’re so f**king hot.” She sighs.
Already using the new nickname, and I haven’t even made her come yet. I’m good.
Without pause, I spread her knees wide enough to fit between them. Her upper body uses the wall behind her for support. And I place a long, openmouthed kiss against her cloth-covered cunt. Delores’s chin rises and she keens. Her scent is sweet, fruity, with a hint of spice—like a ripe apple with a touch of cinnamon. I drag her thong from her body, craving full contact. With my moist, heated tongue, I trace her cropped, flaxen landing strip, then I move lower to lick and nibble the rim of her pu**y. Done with the warm-up, I sink into her, laving and sucking, making her whimper and buck.
I wasn’t talking shit when I said I know my way around a clit. Most guys think heading straight for the hot-button is the way to go—but they’re wrong. Too much pressure, applied too fast, isn’t enjoyable, might even be uncomfortable for a woman. You have to tease it, gradually stimulate it, until it’s stiff and reaching and pleading to be fondled. Once Dee is at that breaking point, I open her lips with my fingers and dance over her knotted bud with my tongue.
She screams—in relief and decadent bliss. I lick her with more force, up and down, without ever losing contact, then I slide two fingers into her sodden, clenching pu**y. Her hips thrust against my face and her hands hold me in place as she comes with an openmouthed moan.
With the sound of Dee’s heavy breaths still in my ears, I stand up and wrap an arm around her waist. She sags against me, pleasure spent and wobbly. I lift her feet from the floor, but she doesn’t seem to have the strength to wrap her legs around me. Her lips seek mine, and her arms cling to my shoulders.
“Bedroom?” I ask between kisses.
“Last door on the left.”