Page 11 of Feathers From the Sky

He releases my thong, and one hand slips down. When his thumb makes contact with my clit, I collapse forward, seeking out his mouth. He tugs my lip between his teeth, and I writhe in his lap. His thumb is rubbing me harder, the fabric between us dampening. My breath hitches, and he uses his other hand to grip my ass hard, pulling me against him.

“Hmm?” It comes out as a low growl as he nuzzles against my neck, his beard scratching against my skin.

“I don’t know,” I say, breathing a laugh. I’m so fucking turned on, it’s difficult to concentrate. Him calling me out is the hottest thing he’s done this whole time. I prefer to be the one who leads things with sex. That way, when I don’t pursue anything further or let anyone pursue anything, it is only because of my actions. But I’m supposed to be wanting something more. With Roman. He is warm and sturdy, and there is so much of him I want to touch. I put my hand on his pec, fingertip on the dot over theIinAlice, and I roll my head to give him better access to my neck.

I wonder who Alice is.

Beneath the smattering of dark brown curls across his chest, I trace my fingertip over the edge of a raven’s wing. There is almost more ink on his body than there isn’t, and I am curious about each illustration. But it’s hard to think about when he has me like this. Every thought is white noise beside his exhaustive touch. Roman is exacting in what he does. Every move appears to be calculated with precision to get what he wants. But, despite the erection, I am uncertain if it is me or my body that he wants. I decide it doesn’t matter. I am relishing his thick fingertips as they bruise my ass, and I’m panting as I grind against his moving thumb.

It only takes me a moment to admonish myself. I’d told myself to not let it go this far. I’d told Sasha not to worry about me, that I had it all under control, that I wouldn’t let myself get hurt. I am already falling back into old habits, and this is the absolute worst time to do it. I doubt my sister expected me to fall apart in his arms like this within a few hours. I wince when I think of the last time I disappointed her.

“Sasha,” I say, pushing myself back and grabbing his wrist. I’m panting, and my skin feels hot. The last thing I want to do is stop, but I use my last remaining brain cell, somehow still sober from the lust enveloping me, and I stop myself.

“What?” he asks. His brow furrows, and I try to recall how old it said he was on the questionnaire. Mid thirties, if I had to guess. He lets go of my ass and drags his hand through his hair as he sits back against the couch.

“My sister,” I begin, and then I realize I don’t even know what the fuck I’m saying.

“You’re thinking about your sister while I touch you?”

Heat flames my cheeks. “Well, no.”

“We can slow down,” he says. “Answer some of those questions?” he asks. His eyes look darker than they did a few minutes ago, a lusty haze over them I suspect mirrors mine.

“I don’t fuck on the first date. Or, I’m trying not to anyway.”

“Okay,” he drawls. The look he gives me borders on cruel. “And your sister has what to do with that?”

I sigh, chuckling by the end of it. “I don’t want to deal with her judging me.”

“Well, we’re not going to fuck.”

“Okay,” I reply, reaching for the bra I’d dropped between us, and easing myself backward on his thighs. I’m confused by his shift in demeanor and am feeling entirely too naked. I quickly got used to rejection in college. But I learned to be discerning—I only pursue things with people I am certain want me. This is the first time in a long time that the rejection has stung. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, hoping I haven’t ruined everything.

“We wouldn’t have the time.” One hand grabs my wrist while his other tilts my chin. “That doesn’t mean I can’t make you feel good, Gwyn. That I can’t give you what you need.” His hand trails down, distractingly soft, caressing my chest. His fingertips brush over my nipple, already harder than a diamond, and he cups me, lifting my breast as he dips his head.

“And what do I need?” I say, letting my head tilt back as I relax on his lap once more—relieved.

“I can tell you’re used to calling the shots. At least with sex,” he says, lips moving against sensitive skin before he bites down. I arch into him, grinding down on his hard length. “I’ll give you what you need without you having to ask for it,” he says, and then his hand is on my throat, pushing my head back.

I brace my hands on his knees behind me, and he twitches as my hips surge toward him. He groans, squeezing my neck gently as his teeth graze over my pebbled flesh. His thumb brushes against my carotid, and my breath hitches. I am worried briefly—we didn’t discuss this—but find relief when his hand shifts incrementally. Roman knows what he’s doing. He merely holds my neck, the display one of power, and I’m surprised I enjoy bending to his will. His fingertips move, sliding gently beneath the waistband of my panties.

“Would you like that, Gwyn? Or would you rather answer those questions with me?” he asks, and I stop moving only for a second because I know what my answer ought to be. I can hear Sasha in my mind, lambasting me for this wanton display. But if she could see this giant of a man, I don’t think she’d blame me.

“Both,” I reply decisively, and his hand on my neck trails down my body as he chuckles.

He leans forward, the curling hair on his chest brushing against my breasts as he wraps an arm around me. He leans forward, half-standing, as he reaches for the paper on the coffee table while I cling tightly to him.

Fuck, he is strong.

“Alright,” he says, settling back onto the sofa. “Tell me about your family,” he says as he puts the paper down beside him and grips my ass. It makes me laugh because how the hell am I supposed to talk about my family when I’m almost naked in this man’s lap as his erection pushes against my inner thigh? When his head dips forward and he gently pulls my nipple into his mouth, I nearly ignore my idea and give into his offer.

“One step-sister,” I say, gasping as his tongue swirls, my nipple tightening in his mouth. “Dead parents. What else do you want to know?”

He pulls away slowly and sits back. Saliva glistens on his lips, but the look he gives me is solemn.

“My mom died when I was young. There’s nothing like this kind of grief, and I’m sorry you’re familiar with it,” he says as his hands move soothingly up my sides. “How did they die?” he asks, and I’m surprised I don’t hesitate.

“My bio mom died when I was born. My dad and adoptive mom died last year. Hit-and-run,” I say, forcing myself not to look away. Forcing myself to look at him as I tell him the source of the grief which has defined me for the last year.

---