Page 81 of Hot Girl Summer

It’s the last thing I hear before the music starts. In my kneeling position, the heavy, syncopated beat of Muse’s Undisclosed Desires sets the tone and mirrors the pounding of my heart while he wraps the distressed leather of the guitar strap around my waist. It’s tight, but comfortable, with a little give, and my pulse quickens with anticipation.

Slow, measured kisses land between my shoulder blades, working their way towards my nape, his erection evident as it presses against my back. Long fingers sweep the length of both my arms, leaving a trail of flames in their wake.

Easing the plectrum from my grasp, he gently guides one hand behind me, feeds it through a loop, and repeats the process with the other one. A quick tug of the leather releases its distinct, oaky scent as it tightens around my wrists. It’s soft and warm, and has enough give to keep the pressure in my shoulder from mounting.

From behind, Danny runs the tapered end of the plectrum along my lower lip. I close my eyes, focusing on its roughness as it trails down, scratching my chin, neck, and chest, finally resting at the apex of fabric meeting flushed skin. He leaves it pressed against my sternum long enough to make a mark, and I appreciate the small ounce of relief I feel from the discomfort.

With the plectrum discarded, Danny’s deft fingers unbutton my dress. My breath hitches with every twist of his fingers. This is pure agony. His body radiates so much warmth, but our proximity will never be enough. I tip my head back into his closeness, resting it on his shoulder, and he meets my lips with soft, slow kisses, reminding me of that infamous Spiderman kiss, while his hands follow the trail he made with the plectrum previously, down my chin and chest, then between our lips.

Oh, fuck.

His fingers brush my skin, from the dip in my neck down the length of my torso, and over my stomach. Carefully, he opens the front of my dress, reaches into my black lace bra, and circles his thumb over my nipple.

“Keep going,” I think I say, but Matt Bellamy’s vocals drown out the sound of my voice.

As Danny explores every inch of my body, over and under fabric, I focus on the words, on his touch. Every lyric, every breath, every caress, is a carefully curated masterpiece serving to stimulate my senses and heighten my arousal, and under his control, I have no reason to feel anything but safe.

Heat spreads rapidly between my legs as Danny moves the lace of my bra down, and his palms alternate between both breasts, giving me all the attention that I crave. Reaching a hand between my legs, he finds my centre, and I draw a sharp breath as his fingers make small circles over my underwear.

With my eyes still closed, I focus on the sweetness of his touch, a stark contrast to the spellbinding sound of Imagine Dragons’ Believer hitting my eardrums. I savour the fire in his fingertips, every skip of my heartbeat, every butterfly that tickles my belly. The odd feeling of not being able to hear myself, or him, but through my heightened awareness of his presence, everything is magnified.

Reaching around, he pushes my underwear aside, moving his fingers in the same circular motion over my clit, keeping a steady rhythm while my pulse races. Raising my hips, I rock against his palm, unfolding under his expert touch.

Oh, God.

I open my eyes, mesmerized by his eagerness to learn my body in a way that no one has bothered to before. Slow, measured caresses make my legs shake, and my lack of a volume button means that I can’t hear myself moan, or pant, or scream, and it leaves me wondering if any sound has escaped my lips.

Every fibre of my being wants to hold on, to make the feeling last longer, but I’m so close. As if he can read my mind, he slows, then stops, and I instantly regret my train of thought. I need the release, and the waiting is agony.

It feels like an hour has passed since I’ve felt his touch, but I know it must have only been a few minutes, because the next song begins, and a rough hand grazing my inner thigh startles me in the most delicious way. But the surprise only serves to heighten my need. This time, he makes quick work, making no hesitation to slip a finger inside, then another.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I struggle to focus on the words like he asked, when all I can think about is having my fill of him. Again, I lean back against him, against the haven of his warmth and the length of his fingers as they curl and pump inside me.

Arctic Monkeys’ Do I Wanna Know kicks in. Using his free hand, Danny gathers the bottom of my dress and tucks it into the leather around my waist. His breath, hot and heavy on my neck and his cock pressed against me pushes me closer to the edge.

I hold my breath as he pulls down my underwear to the back of my knees, and eases his length inside me. Arching my back to better accept him, I lean into the resistance binding my waist, while Danny grasps the strap to keep me upright and close to him. Finally, I feel like I can breathe, and let out a long overdue exhalation.

With a soft gaze, I open my eyes, and notice a small device in Danny’s hand. It’s round and thin, like a watch face. He holds it against my clit, a constant beat pulsing like a metronome, teasing every sense, every nerve.

Oh my fuck.

While his other hand explores the rest of my body, I slide against his warmth, breathing in the scent of citrus, leather and wood as the pressure builds inside and around me. Gradually, I can feel Danny losing control as he drags his teeth across my neck, his breath like fire on my skin. His entire palm covers my breast, squeezing, pulling, scratching, as his strong arms keep me anchored to him.

Muscles contract and pulse, and he doesn’t hold back. It’s hard to tell where he ends and I begin. But I don’t care. Every part of my entire being belongs to him. One final sprint towards the edge sees me crashing into oblivion, the release tearing my body apart into a beautiful, shaken mess.

I collapse onto my knees, my head against the edge of the sofa, drawing heavy, ragged breaths. Somewhere in the afterglow, my ties have been freed, the music has stopped, and the headphones play nothing but my shallow breath and the slowing pound in my chest.

Danny, quiet in all his glistening glory, kisses my shoulder before easing my dress back around my body, and he buttons me up with the same level of care he had shown before. After he helps me onto the couch, he covers my legs with a blanket, removes the headphones and hands me a bottle of water before pulling me close and wrapping his arms around me.

“How do you feel?” he asks, with a soft, gentle voice.

I try and fail to think of a word that even comes close to the way I’m feeling. But there isn’t any one word to describe it.

Glowing, amazing, exhausted, intoxicated, elated.

“Euphoric. Like being underwater,” I say. I pause to have a drink and gather my thoughts. “So, what happens now?”

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