Dating-ish (Knitting in the City Book 6)

by Penny Reid

  “Thank you.” I stood, accepted it, and took several long gulps.

  Matt turned and pulled off his jacket, discarding it to the cushion behind me. He then loosened his tie, which drew my attention.

  “Oh, that’s the tie I got you.” I glanced between him and it, shocked I hadn’t noticed it before now.

  He nodded and laid it reverently on top of his jacket, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. “You said to wear it when I needed good luck.”

  Nothing about his comment sounded offhanded, and my stomach fluttered accordingly.

  I took another drink from the bottle, eyeing him. “Did you need luck tonight?” I cursed the slight tremor in my voice.

  He nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets, considering me for a beat before admitting quietly, “I’m glad you came.”

  “Me too,” I agreed quickly, bringing the bottle back to my lips and scowling at it when no water emerged. I studied its contents, realizing it was empty, then laughed at myself. “I guess I was thirsty.”

  Matt’s smile was small and his nod was subtle. Despite the mass of bodies clearly visible beyond the wall of glass, or perhaps because of them, their frenzied movement in comparison to the stillness between us, the moment felt loud with significance and tension.

  My anxiety returned, mostly because I didn’t truly regret playing footsie with Matt. And therefore, since I didn’t regret it, I felt anxious about what I might do next.

  Setting the empty bottle on the table, I turned and gazed at the huge dance floor. The lights had just dimmed beyond the glass, leaving our little room darker.

  Thoughts like, maybe you can have one night together, where is the harm in that? kept floating through my mind, seducing me with the fantasy and provocative flashes of images. My lungs had difficulty drawing in enough air.

  “Marie?” Matt asked from directly behind me, and I couldn’t help but think, this would be a great place to have hot sex. We should totally do that.

  A short intro on drums followed by a solo saxophone playing a familiar melody reverberated over the speakers. I recognized the song, but couldn’t immediately place it, as I was too busy talking myself into making a move on him.

  “Yes?” My skin felt too tight, so when I felt Matt’s fingers in my hair, pushing it to the side, I released a surprised—yet not surprised—breath.

  He bent to my ear, whispering, “We have to dance to this. Come on.”

  “What?” I glanced over my shoulder and tracked him with my eyes as he came around me, grabbing my hand. Perplexed and disappointed, I let him lead me out the door, to the dance floor, where the music was much louder and George Michael had just begun crooning.

  Matt pulled me through the throng of bodies, then stopped near the center of the crowd. He encouraged my arms around his neck and placed his hands on my waist, pasting our bodies together.

  We swayed to the music and I tilted my head back, watching with wonder as the nut began lip-syncing along with George Michael. Not only did he lip-sync, he lip-synced with feeling to “Careless Whisper” by Wham!

  I giggled at his theatrics and his face split with a giant grin. I’d forgotten how funny he was. I loved this about him. My heart squeezed.

  Spinning me out to one side, then twisting me toward him, my back connected with his front. His arms wrapped around my middle, his nose and lips nuzzling my neck and ear, his hips leading mine in an expert, sensual sway.

  And that’s when I realized that Matt Simmons actually knew how to dance.

  Like, really knew how to dance.

  He had fantastic rhythm.

  His feet weren’t guilty.

  And moves. He had impressively good moves.

  He was such a good dancer that he didn’t even appear to be thinking about it, like it was second nature. His hands smoothed from my shoulders down my arms, his fingers threading with my hands and lifting them, encouraging me to face him again as he returned them to his neck. All the while, still mouthing the words and moving his body as though it was an extension of the music, and therefore so was I.

  Damn.

  He was sexy.

  The first iteration of the chorus drew to a close and the saxophone took over. Matt’s smile slowly waned as we gazed at each other, his hands sliding deliberately from my sides to my lower back. His dark eyes dropped to my mouth, heated, his lips parted, and he inclined his head just an inch closer.

  I could only stare at him, feeling both paralyzed and caught by the thrilling yet terrifying current of his intent.

  Terrifying because this was Matt. My crutch. My crush. My mountain of unrequited feelings. My friend who wasn’t really my friend, who I had non-friendly thoughts about.

  All.

  The.

  Time.

  I thought of him, of cuddling with him, of how he felt beneath my fingers, behind me, his lips on my neck . . .

  He’s going to kiss me, the flare of panic only serving to intensify the sensations thickening my blood, sending me head-first into a spiral of confusion and desire.

  If I gave in to this, surrendered to this thing between us, it wouldn’t be bravery.

  It would be recklessness.

  24

  Iamus

  A bio-inspired technology for music composition and synthetization of music, where computers do not mimic musicians, but develop their own style (with no human intervention).

  Source: Melomics Media

  His lips brushed mine. Just a soft whisper. It felt like a test.

  It also felt like torture. He was torturing me.

  Unable to endure his gentleness, I lifted my chin and dug my nails into the back of his neck, fusing our mouths together.

  With feeling.

  And that seemed to be all the encouragement he needed.

  Abruptly, everything about him turned fierce, with biting teeth and devouring tongue. His strong arms wrapped around my body, as though to trap me, as he plundered my mouth in the most exquisite of all kisses.

  Holy crap.

  HOLY CRAP.

  He was a great kisser.

  I was dizzy with how great this felt, how necessary. Or maybe it was the lack of air. I didn’t know. All I knew was that we were just going to have to keep kissing for the rest of our lives and that was that.

  And plunder was exactly the right word. He lifted his head, sucking on my lip, tasting me anew, groaning when I responded with enthusiasm, tightening his hold when I shifted against him, licking and stroking the inside of my mouth. The twisting ache in my abdomen became overwhelming.

  And yet . . . I wanted to be sure he was enjoying himself. I wanted to make sure he was feeling the same fireworks of arousal and wonder that were igniting in my chest. So I endeavored to give, and give, and give.

  And then the tempo changed. Both the music and the rhythm of his kiss. The bass kicked up, strumming and thumping, long, savoring beats, reverberating through my chest, steady and intoxicating.

  We were moving. Matt moved me backward, still kissing, his mouth on my neck, my jaw, biting and tasting and sucking my skin with impatience and hunger. His fingers dug into my shoulders and backside, his hold on the brink of painful. Likewise, I tried to mirror his movements, kissing his neck, wanting him to feel as desperately out of control as I did.

  He steered us while we consumed each other, expertly weaving through the crowd, which seemed to instinctively recognize that this was a crisis.

  At the stairs, he separated from me and I moaned my discontent, reaching for him. But then he bent, hoisting me over his shoulder, and I gasped.

  He climbed the stairs and punched in the four-digit code. Then I heard him curse. “What the fuck is the code?”

  “3-4-5-7,” I said, laughing with desire-induced hysteria, my arms wrapping around his waist to keep myself steady.

  “Thank you,” came his short reply, punching in the numbers again, and we were through the door.

  I didn’t spare a thought for how obvious we were being, not one sin
gle thought. Because . . . whoremones.

  Instead I began frantically pulling his shirt from his pants. And when he set me on the ground, I frantically undid the buckle of his belt. His hands were at the back of my dress, searching for the zipper while our mouths mated.

  “Damn it,” he breathed against my lips just as I released his buckle, winning the getting-the-other-person-more-naked race.

  Unbuttoning his pants, I shoved my hand down the front of his boxers.

  “Marie, fuck.” Hissing, Matt pushed himself into my palm, a reflexive movement. Momentarily paralyzed, his forehead met mine and I saw him struggle, battling for control.

  He felt so good, so right, so thick and hard and long and big and smooth and hot. The want in me clawed, demanding, obliterating caution, silencing what was left of reason, yet the desire to please him was just as strong, if not stronger.

  I . . . worried.

  Although I’d never felt so certain I would perish without satisfaction, I fretted that I wouldn’t be able to provide what he needed in return. And so I rubbed my body against his, impetuously seeking friction and sensation and touch, hoping to communicate to him that I wanted to be an instrument of his satisfaction as well.

  But then in the next moment, he yanked my hand away, holding my wrists hostage at my sides, and walked me backward, his mouth once again capturing mine for a starving kiss. Like I was the answer. Like all his hunger would end if he’d just kiss me long enough.

  My calves hit the couch and the strength of his advancing momentum sent me downward, my bottom hitting the velvet sofa, jarring me. He followed, kneeling on the floor, placing my arms around his neck while in the next moment his fingers slid under my dress. His thumbs gliding along the interior of my thighs, he parted my legs, making me tremble.

  “Let me touch you,” I begged, spreading myself wider for him as I moved to the edge of the couch. His fingertips inched higher. I gasped, the throbbing want built within me, becoming brutal and demanding. “I want to make you feel good.”

  “Lie back,” he instructed, brushing his knuckles against my center, rubbing me teasingly through the lace of my panties.

  I shuddered, unable to comply. My nails were anchored to his shoulders. I whimpered, “Please, Matt. Please. I need you to feel good, too.”

  A tremor overtook him, followed by a desperate growl as he hooked his fingers into my underwear and tugged them down my legs. His movements were urgent, lacking finesse.

  But it was perfect, the sign I craved. His frenetic desire was perfect as it heightened mine.

  “Take off your dress,” he demanded, removing his outer shirt, leaving him in his white tee.

  I had to lean forward, clumsily reaching for, then finding the pull of my zipper under my arm. Once it was undone, his hands were there, pushing it over my head and tossing it to where his jacket and tie were, discarded ages ago.

  He pulled me forward by wrapping one strong arm around my waist, nipping and suckling my breasts through my bra. Laying me back on the couch atop his dress shirt, he tugged one strap of my bra down my shoulder, exposing me, sliding his hand around to unhook it as his mouth both worshipped and tortured my body with decadent kisses and bites.

  “Take this off.” He tugged at the loose bra.

  Matt’s large hands squeezed and massaged and fondled while I pulled the offending garment down my arms, then lifted his T-shirt, needing the feel of him, wanting his skin flush against mine.

  He leaned back, evading me, his eyes blazing a trail over my bare skin as I instinctively covered myself. He pulled my arms away from my body, his unapologetic gaze moving from my breasts to my stomach, then lower, licking his lips.

  “Matt,” I pleaded.

  His eyes lifted to mine abruptly, hooded and sharp, as if gripped by a sudden thought, an acute obsession. He leaned forward, his hand moving between my legs, parting me, stroking me.

  I cried out at the contact I craved, rolling my hips, gripping his strong shoulders for purchase as he demanded on a growl, “This will not be the only time.”

  I nodded, panting, feeling empty, needing more. I wanted to touch him, stroke him, and drive him mad like he was so expertly doing to me. And the worry persisted, that maybe I couldn’t. That somehow the pleasure I could give to him would fall short of his expectations.

  “Tell me how badly you want me inside you,” he ordered, bending to bite my neck, then soothed the sting with his tongue, adding, “How badly you want me to fuck you.”

  Whoa . . . !

  All the air left my lungs in a whoosh at his unexpected sexy talk, my head lolling to the side, offering more of myself. I’d never been a dirty talker, maybe I never had the confidence to do so. But something about it sounded so essential in that moment. So perfect. I needed his rough voice. I needed the brazen harshness of his words. They calmed the voices of doubt in my head.

  “Do you want me, Marie? Because I want you. You’re so wet, is that for me?”

  I couldn’t speak, so I nodded, a keening sound slipping past my lips. His fingers at my center were a gentle contradiction to the ravenous kisses he lavished on my breasts, then stomach, then hip, then lower.

  “Do you want my mouth on you? On your pussy? I can’t wait to taste you.”

  God, yes! The affirmation of his words, of his want, they both soothed and excited me. I couldn’t breathe, I could barely see, and my heart galloped between my ears. Every filthy word out of his mouth drove me mad with desire.

  Holy shit.

  Who was this guy?

  And who was I?

  I watched his progress, the sight of his head moving between my legs, kissing my inner thigh, skimming his lips along the sensitive skin until he parted me with his thumbs.

  My toes curled, then pointed, every muscle in my body tense. Usually, I wanted to give head first, to make sure my partner was feeling good.

  But as Matt licked me, groaning, his sounds effectively silenced my concerns about his arousal and renewed thoughts of perishing. I might die from pleasure. The flat of his tongue lapped leisurely, tasting, savoring. I moaned. Loudly. I couldn’t help it. Convinced I was on the brink of madness, I ached. I hurt. The carnal sounds of his mouth comingling with my hedonistic sighs made me restless.

  “I want you,” I panted, my fingers in his hair, grabbing and pulling and pushing.

  He groaned, slipping two fingers inside me, stroking me in tempo with his tongue.

  “Not this way,” I implored, reaching for him, clawing at his shirt, determined to take it off this time.

  I wanted him face to face, I wanted his body moving against mine, I wanted his grunts and sighs, the tense and release of his muscles.

  “Please, please.” I was so close, so close. I panicked. I didn’t want to be selfish, and coming now felt unfair to him. I wanted his pleasure.

  He lifted his mouth from me and placed a wet, suckling kiss on the inside of my thigh, trailing his tongue along the skin and breathing on my center.

  “Tell me what you want.”

  He was torturing me again. But damn. It hurt so good.

  “I want you inside me.” I reached for him.

  He evaded me, increasing the tempo of his finger. “I am inside you.”

  “Please, Matt. Please. Let me—” I groaned, frustrated but wildly aroused by his wickedness.

  “You’re amazing, so beautiful. Touch yourself.” His voice shook slightly as he positioned my hands, one kneading my breast, encouraging me to roll and pinch my nipple, the other replacing his fingers at my center.

  I moaned in protest as he moved to stand, so he leaned forward, and whispered in my ear, hot breath and an exorbitant amount of masculine confidence scorching my skin, “Don’t stop. Will you let me watch you touch your perfect body? You’re so sexy.”

  Then he stood.

  With his eyes on me, and his encouraging words ringing in my ears, I didn’t know how much longer I would last. I felt vulnerable, but oddly empowered by my vulnerability. Matt’
s gaze held mine as he pulled his wallet from his pocket, pulling his shirt from his torso, and then finally shoving down his pants and boxers.

  I bit back another moan at the sight of him, my sex clenching, because every inch of him—from his long legs to his mad-scientist hair to his seductive mahogany eyes—was perfect to me.

  Deftly, he removed a condom from his wallet and ripped it open, discarding the wrapper and rolling it down his hard length. Then he was on me again, but this time he removed my hands from my body without a word, encouraging me to stand and hold on to his shoulders. His mouth crashed down to mine and he picked me up. My legs bracketed his waist as he turned, sitting on the couch with me straddling him.

  Instinctively, I rocked against him, needing the friction, needing the feel of him, and shuddered when I felt his erection nudge against my entrance.

  He hissed, grabbed my hips, and held me still. His teeth were clenched as he commanded, “Do you want to ride me? Would that make you feel good?”

  I nodded, moaning, shifting restlessly as I used him to stroke myself. Matt released his hold on my hips. With one swift movement he positioned me over him and thrust upward, filling me. I gasped, my nails digging into his skin. He felt so good, so right, so necessary. I wanted this to last; I wanted the feel of him beneath me to last forever.

  But then he encouraged me to move, to ride him, splaying his hands on my body as he thrust upward with sinuous deliberateness.

  “Oh, God.”

  “Mmm . . . Do you like that?” He nuzzled my breasts, loving them with soft bites and licks, watching them move and sway with hunger in his gaze as I rolled my hips in time with his.

  I liked it. I loved it. Yet I couldn’t turn my mind off. I wanted to know it was good for him, too.

  “Matt, please—”

  “I could spend all day between your legs.” His hands grew covetous, massaging, cupping my breasts and tugging at my nipples. His words of praise sent spikes of white-hot heat to my core.

  I wanted it to last, to last for him. But it was too late.

  I splintered with a fierce cry as he thrust into my body faster and faster as I came, making me bounce on his lap. I bowed toward him, holding on as I tensed and tightened and released and pulsed. My eyes were closed against the overwhelming reality of sensation, riding the wave of pure ecstasy until it became an abyss.