I swallowed. I felt him, his hard body, the heat of him behind me…his erection a thick ridge.
“Titus.”
“Laurel.” He drew his fingertips lightly up my body, over the belt buckle, over the swell of my breasts and against the exposed dip of my cleavage, up my throat. To my chin. He pressed my chin up, and I was looking up at him, into his deep tawny eyes.
“Remember at the wedding, when I didn’t kiss you?” he whispered, his voice a rough, dark buzz.
“Uh-huh.” I was falling into his eyes, falling upward, somehow, drawn into the roiling heat of them, into the expressive wilds of them. I felt incoherent. Intoxicated.
“Not gonna miss this time. Just giving you fair warning.”
“Okay.”
And there it was, that mouth that could sing such beauty, that could growl and scream with such tortured anger, it was slicing across my lips, fusing to my mouth. His lips were firm, warm, strong. His kiss was slow, exploratory. I tasted him, tasted coffee, and just him. He didn’t relent, but continued to deepen the kiss, to slither his tongue into my mouth, to demand my desire.
And desire I had, in spades, to show him.
His body behind me was hard and taut, and his hand played at my waist, toyed with the buckle of my belt. His kiss created desire in me, his body elicited need out of me, brought it raging to life within me. Not that it was hard to do under even the worst of circumstances, and these were far from the worst of circumstances.
I felt his fingers move, and my belt dropped to the floor.
His tongue tasted my teeth and my tongue, and I was dizzy with his kiss, and then my jacket was falling to the floor at my feet. What drug was in his kiss? It had to be a drug, to so completely fluster me, to drown me, to eradicate my senses and my wits.
All I knew was Titus. His mouth on mine, his tongue against mine, his body blasting heat, his hands busy here, there, everywhere.
My dress was stretchy, molded to my body. Titus’s hands stole over my curves, from hip up to waist, to bust, then back down. His kiss continued, a relentless onslaught, and I knew I’d never been kissed quite like this, and I wondered in the faint fuzzy back of my head if he kissed all his conquests like he was kissing me.
He caught at my shoulders. At the neckline. Pulled, stretched, and the material of my dress skimmed lower, and the white cups of my bra peeked out, and then my breasts, still contained in the bra, bounced out from under the tight prison of the fabric, and then the dress was stuck on my hips. Not for long. He now broke the kiss, only to press his lips to my neck, to my shoulder. He was so tall he had to bend to reach my shoulder, which put his hands at waist height. Let him tug the dress down further, past the bell of my hips. God, I was really going to let Titus Bright strip my dress off, right here in this client's home? In front of this three-way mirror?
Yes, yes I was.
His kiss was hot on my skin, and his fingers were busy and clever and I hadn’t come at all in weeks, and I needed pleasure, and surely if he could like this, if he could distract me with his mouth and tease my clothes off so skillfully I barely noticed, he would make me feel good.
And fuck, I just wanted him. Even drunk on his kisses, I knew that much was undeniable. Just physically, I was hot for him. My thighs were clenched and my sex was drenched, and he was just getting started.
Oh god, oh god.
I wanted this.
Right here, like this. It would be so fucking hot.
It would get him out of my system. Get me over him.
I let him kiss my shoulder blades, let him peel the stretchy white dress down over my hips until it fell around my feet, leaving me clad in nothing but bra and panties.
White as well.
But more lace than silk, because I liked feeling sexy, and it was fun to put on hot underwear for no reason at all.
Or maybe I’d subconsciously known this would happen and had dressed accordingly.
Either way, he broke away from kissing my back and shoulders, stood upright. “You’re a fucking goddess, Laurel. Look at you.”
I managed a cocky smirk. “I saw myself in the mirror this morning when I got dressed.”
He stood behind me, fingers at my spine. “Not like this, you didn’t.”
Pinched at my bra closure.
I arched away from his touch. “Ah-ah-ah.” I met his eyes in the mirror. “You want that off?” I jutted my chin at his reflection. “Shirt off, bub. This is a two-way street.”
He crossed his arms at his hips and peeled the shirt off. “Anything else? Or are we going tit for tat?”
I reached behind me and found the button of his shorts. “I can manage from there, I think.” I freed the button, tugged down the zipper, and the loose shorts dropped around his feet; he kicked them aside.
He let me fumble at his thighs, his waist, until I found the ridge of his erection.
Holy.
Mother.
Of all.
Fucks.
Titus Bright was a legend in the rock and roll world. There were urban legends about his backstage antics—multiple groupies at one time, pointing at girls in the front row and bringing them backstage. Inviting whole groups on his tour bus. Urban legends as well about his sexual prowess, his size, his stamina. There were photos of him, but of sketchy provenance, and grainy to boot. In LA, you’d meet someone whose friend had slept with him, and she would claim that his cock was just absolutely monstrous, and wouldn’t you know, he could fuck all night and never get tired.
It all seemed too ridiculous to be true. It had to be made up.
The moment I pressed my palm over his underwear-imprisoned member, I knew the stories of his size, if nothing else, were not only true, but possibly undersold the truth of him.
“Jesus,” I whispered, grasping at him, angling my hands behind me, fingertips down and flat against his belly, scraping down his thighs to push his underwear off.
“Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll take care of you.” He slid a strap off my shoulder, kissing over the skin just behind the slide of the strap. “Real, real good care.”
He chuckled. “Sweet thing, all you’ll feel is good. Promise.” He slid the other strap off, and then paused at the closure of my bra. “But first…I gotta get my hands on these babies.”
He pinched, loosed, and flung the garment forward and off. My breasts swayed free, bare, and I felt his cock, now partially bared against my backside, throbbed. “Fucking hell, Laurel. I’ve seen a fuckin’ shitload of tits in my life, but never…Jesus god, woman…I’ve never seen any as perfect as these.” He gingerly, reverently cupped his hands under my heavy breasts. “Are they real?”
I laughed. “Do they feel real?”
He rolled a nipple in his fingers; I watched, biting my lip as the zing of pleasure buzzed through me at his touch. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “All natural. I’ve had plastic surgery, but not to those.”
“Someday, we’ll play a game where I guess what you had done. But not right now.” He moved around in front of me, knelt. Gazed up at me. “Right now, I have other things in mind.”
The three-way mirror reflected him from three angles, and all I could see was him worshipping at the altar of my sex. His hands braced my hips, and he let out a harsh breath. As if he was attempting to drag out the moment of exposing my sex, but couldn’t hold out any longer.