Page 68 of What Happens in Amsterdam

Instead of obliging, he keeps his eyes on me as he readjusts. He sits back on his knees, treating me to a spectacular view of his chest before he settles himself at my hips, tugging me upward until my head is on the pillow. He’s gentle at first, planting soft kisses on my thighs, playing connect-the-dots with the freckles I have there. A bite. Another lingering kiss.

“Please,” I croak out, because he’s rendered me incapable of keeping my begging to myself. “Now you’re just torturing me.”

A broken-off laugh. “Going slow is more for my benefit than for yours. As soon as I start licking you, I’m afraid I’m not going to last long.”

For a second, I’m convinced he’s used the wrong pronouns, that he meansIwon’t last long. But the moment he puts his mouth on me, I realize he was exactly right. His body tightens as he grasps my hips like an anchor, and the way he groans when I fist a hand in his hair is my new favorite thing about him.

He pauses to touch his damp forehead to my inner thigh. “You taste even better than I remember.”

Then he takes the tip of his tongue to my clit and neither of us can speak. He licks me like he missed me, giving me all the pressure I need and more, until I feel that tension building at the base of my spine. My legs begin to shake, and he must be able to sense it because he quickens his pace. One hand keeps me spread to him while he flattens his tongue, flicking it against me in a firm, insistent rhythm that has me pulling at his hair, biting the back of my hand. Swearing his name.

Everything in me winds the tightest tight before my muscles go slack, a gasp yanked from my throat. The orgasm rolls through my body in waves of white-hot pleasure—thighs quivering, eyes shut, head thrown back. The neediest burst of relief.

Wouter holds his mouth to my forehead, brushing aside sweaty strands of hair as I come back to earth.

A laugh mixes with a sigh as I force my eyes back open. His hair is wild and a lovely scarlet spills across his cheeks, matching the marks on his neck where I left eager kisses, but it’s not enough. I want this man to look fucking debauched.

“Come here,” I say, tipping his mouth to mine and tasting myself on his lips.

Then I give my hand a long lick before I wrap it around him.

“You really thought you might come, just from going down on me?” I ask. “Before I could get my hands on you?”

He groans, buries his mouth in the side of my neck. With my thumb, I rub the head of his cock, spreading those drops of moisture along his shaft. And even though I’m desperate to go slow, to make this last as long as possible, I can’t resist pumping him harder. Faster.

“Dani,” he grits out. “I’m trying so hard not to embarrass myself here, but that’s—that’s so fucking good.”

God, he’s already about to fall apart in the palm of my hand, this gorgeous man who made me see stars. His fingertips travel up my back, inching upward, until he can spread them along my neck and up into my hair.

Just when I sense he’s moments from the edge, I release my hand. He lets out a heavy breath at the loss of my touch as I move up to his face, kissing him slowly. Sweetly. His eyes are shut, long lashes looking so delicate.

Then I reach for him and start again.

The expletives that tumble from his mouth are more than worth it, especially when I lean down to close my lips around him. He’s even harder now, heat and salt. I take him in slowly, swirling my tongue around the tip of his cock. Watching him watch me. I commit every single one of his reactions to memory: a fist gripping thebedsheets. Adam’s apple fluttering in his throat. Abdominal muscles trembling with the weight of all the times he’s held himself back.

“Oh fuck,” he pants. “Just like that, lief.”

The word slips out—I’m sure of it. He doesn’t have control over himself like this.

Suddenly his eyes go wide, and he gazes down at me as though making sure I know I don’t have to let him finish like this if I don’t want to. Butgod, I want to. I give him a fierce confirmation as I suck him deeper, and within an instant, he’s completely undone. Pushed over the edge with a brilliant moan and a rush of heat in my mouth, his fingertips still stroking the nape of my neck.

When our breathing calms down, he heads to the bathroom for a warm, damp towel, one of the ones that used to be shaped like a swan. I’m not sure why my heart squeezes when he cleans me up first—probably I’m not used to anyone taking care of me like that.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he says, “but I don’t think it was ever quite like that when we were seventeen?”

I laugh, nudging him with my elbow. “No, you’ve definitely picked up a few moves.”

“As have you.”

He props himself up on one arm to kiss me but hesitates, as though unsure how to navigate this new territory. I close the space between us and bring my mouth to his. I don’t know what we are or what this means—just that I don’t want to stop kissing him.

“How early is the train tomorrow?” I ask.

“Too early. I should probably set an alarm.”

After fiddling with his phone, he slides an arm around my back and pulls me to his chest. His hand rests at my hip, my face in the crook of his neck. It’s peaceful here, his pulse drumming against my cheek, probably the most peace I’ve had in months. The rhythm of it lulls me into a trance; my eyes are already starting to shut.

“We always wanted to sleep in the same bed together,” he says, his words thick like he’s already on the verge of it. “All those years ago.”

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