Page 11 of One Room Vacancy
“Come here,” I breathe.
He does.
One knee presses into the mattress, then the other, and he crawls toward me like he’s trying not to spook whatever this is between us.
His hands skim up my calves, slow and steady, pushing the hem of my dress higher as he goes.
“Been thinking about this all night,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the sliver of bare skin he’s uncovering. “This fuckin’ dress?—”
He bends down, mouth brushing my knee, then higher, then again.
“Didn’t even hear half of what Jackson was saying at dinner. Just kept looking at you…lookin’ like that.”
I huff out a breath. “Like what?”
His mouth drags up the inside of my thigh. “Like trouble.”
I arch a brow. “You’ve had me before, Gabe. You know what I’m like.”
He shakes his head, kisses the dip between my hip and thigh. “Not like this.”
His voice is muffled against my skin, like he’s not even talking to me anymore—just saying it because it’s the only way to let it out.
“That color on you—shit, I don’t even usually have an opinion on dresses, but I wanted to lose my mind.”
My breath catches. His hands are on my waist now, palms warm and wide, sliding the fabric up and over my hips, slow, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. He leans in again, presses a kiss to the soft skin just below my belly button.
“I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about the idea of gettin’ my hands on you.” Another kiss. “Mouth on you.” His voice dips lower. “You all spread out like this.”
“Gabe.” My voice cracks a little.
He glances up, hair falling into his eyes. “Just tell me to stop.”
“I won’t.”
He sinks lower between my thighs, dragging his mouth along my skin like he’s starved for it. No more talking, just heat.
He hooks his fingers in the sides of my underwear that is barely a sliver of fabric, eyes flicking up one last time to check, really check, but I don’t look away. I lift my hips for him.
They’re gone in a second, tossed somewhere neither of us cares about.
He groans under his breath, a sound like he’s physically trying to keep it together, and presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. Then another, higher.
And then he licks a long, slow stripe up the center of me, and my whole body jerks.
“Fuck,” he mutters, barely audible. “Missed this.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Not because of what he’s doing—because God, that feels incredible—but because I know he means it. I know he means this.
The sex, the way I taste, the way I sound when he’s got his mouth on me like this. That’s what he misses.
Not me.
Not my laugh or the way I make him coffee after a night he snuck over to my place, even when I’m pissed at him. Not how I remember which songs he skips on an album in the car or that he cracks his knuckles when he’s thinking.
Just this.
