Love in Lingerie

by Alessandra Torre

  I look up at the growl in his voice, a shiver of illicit pleasure shooting through me at the possession in his eyes. “Did it?” Oh, I know. I know how it felt when his lips had lowered to Chelsea’s bare shoulder. I know how, when I’d straddled Stephen later that night, all I could think about was Trey’s mouth against her ear, his hand under the table, our eyes meeting for a moment across a linen tablecloth and menus.

  “I used to fake phone calls so that I could leave the room and be alone, get away from you.” He quickens his hips, a swear rolling off his dirty mouth as he glances between our bodies for a moment, then looks back at me. “I would go into a bathroom stall and jack off my cock, imagining that you would follow me in there, and drop down on your knees.” He pushes on my chest, and I move my elbows, lying back on the rug, my legs dropping as he moves up my body, his stiff cock bobbing over my bra, brushing against my throat, and then he is leaning over me, his cock at my mouth, and I open it, my tongue against the tip of it. I reach for it, and he grabs my hand with one of his and pulls it above my head. “Unclasp your bra and then give me your other hand,” he orders, his eyes on mine.

  I do as he says, and a rough exhale falls out of him as I undo the front closure on my bra, my fingers taking the extra moment to push the lace away from my breasts, exposing myself to him.

  “Shit,” he breathes, his eyes devouring the exposed skin. “God, Kate.” His voice breaks, and I look past the bob of his cock to watch the muscles in his throat flex. “You’re so fucking beautiful. I didn’t even … God, I’ve thought about this so much, and I was still wrong. With how perfect you are.” His eyes pinch shut and he lets out a long exhale, a shudder that ripples through his entire body. When he opens his eyes, his control is back, and he nods at my free hand. “Give me your hand. Up here, with the other.”

  I move my hand up, his wrapping around both of my wrists and pinning them to the rug, a change in position that arches my back off of the floor. His eyes dart once to my breasts, then he is kneeling over me, his other hand flat on the rug, keeping the pressure off my wrists, and I watch as the head of him moves before me. “Keep still and open that mouth, Kate.”

  I do, and he shifts, my eyes closing as he lines himself up, then the tip of him is between my lips, softly pushing, my tongue coming out to meet him, the gentle press of his hips pushing him deeper into my mouth. He moves slowly, a gentle dip in and out, his thickness not allowing too much depth, my efforts to take him bringing soft words of encouragement from his voice.

  His movements get a little rougher, and there is a catch in his voice when he speaks again. “I used to fist my dick and think about you on your knees, your boyfriend back at the table, you apologizing to me with this perfect mouth. I thought about punishing you with my cock, making you gag on my dick, pushing it deeper, and coming down your throat. I wanted to send you back to him with the taste of me on your tongue, with your pussy wet. I imagined so many fucking dirty things, so many ways that I would punish you. You drove me mad, Kate.”

  He pulls his hips away, jerking out of my mouth, and I gasp for breath, my thighs twisting together, the need between them too great. My orgasm from his mouth seems hours ago, and I need something, anything, to rub against, to penetrate. “Please,” I beg. “Fuck me.”

  He chuckles, and pushes off the rug, releasing my hands and sitting up above me, my saliva dripping off him, and his eyes flare with arousal as he takes a moment to drag the head of him over my lips. “You are going to be the death of me.”

  I lift my upper body, and my breasts brush against his ass, his knees still on either side of my shoulders. “Fuck me,” I demand.

  His smile grows wider. “Are you sure you want that? For me to well and truly fuck you?”

  I recognize a Trey Marks challenge when I hear one. In three years, there have been many. Most, I have approached with a cautious hand. This one, I grab by the fucking balls. Or rather, by the shaft. I grip my hand around him and squeeze, and the shock of it all is still there. I am touching Trey’s cock.

  He gives one short thrust against my palm, then jerks to his feet, holding out a hand and helping me up. “Put your knees on the couch, hands on the back of it.” The words are hard and business-like, the kind that don’t allow for discussion, and I scramble, my skin hot from the fire, the leather cool as it yields to the pressure of my knees, my hands gripping the back cushion. I hear the slide and collide of metal, and turn to see Trey, bare-assed in front of the windows, raising and locking them into place, a cool breeze immediately entering the room and fighting with the warmth from the fire. “Not there,” he snaps, pointing to the end of the sectional, the one closest to the fire. “Here.”

  I move closer, and when I get back on my knees and tilt forward, I look over my shoulder at him. He’s a dark silhouette before the fire, an outline of raw sexuality, of strong arms and hips, of hard ass and abs. He strokes himself and comes forward, and there is a moment of reverence when his hands close over each of my ass cheeks. “Are you holding on to the couch?” he asks.

  “Yes.” God, I want this. I want him to be raw and rough. He shoves inside of me, and it’s an invasion. There are no slow and controlled strokes, no gentle draws to allow my body to adjust. This is straight fucking, and it is exactly how I’d always pictured Trey would do it—wild and furious, the bite of his fingernails into my skin, the slam of his thick cock in and out, the grunt of him, the slap of our thighs, the moment when he reaches forward, his hands jerking at the bra that still hangs from my shoulders. “Keep your hands on the couch,” he grits out, and he grips one of my shoulders, using it for leverage, as if I am a wild stallion that he is taming. It takes only seconds for me to come, for the last twenty minutes of teasing to erupt into one overwhelming shatter of senses. I claw at the leather, I scream his name, and when my entire body tenses, it is a rolling, tumbling fall of ecstasy that doesn’t stop, the animalistic sounds coming from him, the continual mad thrusts of his body, the jerk of the lace, the assault of cock and balls against and inside of me … I scream over and over, and if this is a Trey Marks orgasm, I am ruined for life. I cannot, will not, ever find this again. I cannot, will not, ever experience this again. There is no way that a body can feel this good, can come apart this completely, and survive. I hover in some plane, some beautiful place where it doesn’t end, where he and I are fully connected, every line of our bodies intact. When I come back to life, it is with a shudder, my arms falling from the couch, my body pitching forward, and when my cheek hits the couch, I open my eyes.

  Fire glowing, its shape blurry, my eyes tearing. Cool air against my skin, yet I’m warm everywhere, his body thrusting, the slap of us together like a chant in the room. He is saying something, something about me, something about love and fucking and how I feel. He is sliding his hands down my arms, pulling my wrists together at the small of my back, and then they are being bound by his grip, a tight hold while he continues, while he thrusts and pulls, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so wet, so warm, so oblivious to everything but the moment where we connect, the thick feel of him inside of me, the fill and then empty, perfection and then need. He moves me to the side, where my head has more room against the seat of the couch, and I feel everything shift as he climbs onto the leather, my ass up in the air, hands still held behind my back. He pushes back inside and the feeling is different, the angle new, the pleasure a twisted blend of something else, and any coherent thought is gone as he leans forward, one hand playing over my nipples. These thrusts are slower, deeper, more intense. He squeezes my breasts and I tell him he is a god. He pulls on them gently, rubs his fingers over their curves and he tells me how much he loves me.

  Then, his hands release my wrists and the pace picks up.

  At some point, I am against the last window, the tall pane of glass that doesn’t open, my bare breasts against the cold surface, my cheek pressed to it, his hand knotted in my hair, holding me in place. The other is at my hip, and he moves fluidly and perf
ectly, not all of the way in, just little notches of pleasure that drive me to another orgasm, one where my legs collapse and he carries me to the floor, lying me on my back.

  “I’m going to come,” he pants out, almost apologetically, as if his performance is weak, and this is his third thrust, and he just can’t control himself. “Where do you want it?”

  “Inside of me.”

  “Fuck, I’m glad you said that.” His tempo increases, and when he comes, he says my name in a way that is almost a prayer, his breaths ragged, his eyes on me. When he gives a final shuddering push, I wrap my arms around him and whisper out everything I’ve never said. How much I love him. How much I’ve needed him. How much, in the middle of the day, in the middle of the night, for our entire friendship, I’ve wanted him.

  He falls onto the rug and pulls me on top of him. “Tell me you’ll stay with me. Tell me this is forever.”

  “It is.” I lift my head off his chest and look into his eyes. Inside, a part of me worries. Inside, a part of me is terrified. But when I look into his eyes, when I see the man I know, it all goes away.

  There are few things I know in life. But I know that look in his eyes. I know when he is committed to something, when he is making a promise that he will fight with every bit of his soul to keep. He has that look when it comes to his company, the one he’s risking for us. And this look is even stronger. This look is one dipped in love.

  He swallows, his jaw tightening, his throat moving, and his eyes change, just a little, before he speaks.

  “Marry me,” he says, and for such a strong man, there is so much vulnerability in those vowels.

  chapter 20

  Him

  I don’t know where the words come from. They fall out of my mouth and hang between us, and damn if I never want to put them back in.

  Marriage is something I stopped thinking about a long time ago, around the first time I had a husband ask me to screw his wife. Monogamy just didn’t seem to be that sacred a concept, the thought of freedom more tantalizing. But then I met her—I fell for her. An hour ago, I was afraid to bring up dating, afraid at the risk I was bringing to my company and our friendship. That was just an hour ago. And now, a proposal? It’s too quick, ridiculously too quick. I’m going to scare her off, going to ruin everything. Her loving me isn’t the same as a commitment that will bind us—

  “Trey.” She touches my face, her fingers soft, and it’s over. You don’t respond to a marriage proposal with a name. I close my eyes and can feel the hopelessness when it hits, the down that comes after a high. Her lips brush against mine, her nails soft against my cheeks, the tickle of her hair as it falls against my ear.

  “Ignore that,” I mumble. “It was stupid.” I need to recover. I need to open my eyes, and make a dirty remark, and give her that smirk—the one that gets me out of trouble and covers mistakes. I need to do all of it, but can’t muster up a smile, can’t come back to life after drowning.

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It was.”

  “I want to marry you.”

  I take a risk and look up at her, the fire’s light playing across her features, and there is a but coming, I can feel it pushing off her tongue. “But,” she says, and then her eyes drop, her fingers running over my bottom lip. I open my mouth and gently bite down on her thumb. Her eyes flick back to mine. “But, I’m worried about the orgy stuff.”

  It is so unexpected, that I can’t help but smile. She scowls in response, and I know suddenly that we will be fine, that we are Kate and Trey, and even if we don’t marry, there is nothing that can come between us. “It’s not funny,” she says, pushing on my chest.

  “The orgy stuff?” I repeat, and I try to contain my smile, to take seriously whatever is about to come out of her delicious mouth.

  “Yes, Trey. The orgy stuff.” She huffs out a breath, sitting upright.

  I can’t stop the laugh that comes at her petulant expression. “I don’t do orgies, Kate.” I quickly amend the words. “I haven’t done orgies. I was only the third for couples. That’s it.”

  “Okay, sorry. The threesome stuff.” She rolls her eyes. “Is that better?”

  “Yes.” I slide my hands up her bare thighs, and I like this position, having her astride me, her pussy bare on my stomach, wet from my come, her hair falling over her breasts, her face flushed from our sex and her current indignation over my pain-in-the-ass past. “What worries you about it?”

  “I’m just worried that you’ll want me to do that. And it’s not that I’m a prude or anything—”

  I pop my hips enough that she bounces up, and she stops talking, caught off balance, her hand reaching out to stabilize herself as she comes back down to my stomach, my hand taking advantage of the moment to slip underneath her. I slide two fingers inside, curving them up and toward me, and her objection dies as she melts forward. “Trey,” she protests, and it is a weak slur of my name, my fingers gently sweeping over her g-spot, and she is so warm, so tight, so wet inside. I wonder how much of it is my come, and how much is her, and how, if I press right there … she curses and digs her fingers into my chest.

  “Jesus, Trey. Don’t stop.”

  “Look at me, Kate.”

  My confidence rises when she tries to lift her eyes to mine. They are heavy, her eyes hooded and glazed, and thank God I am only now discovering this—how responsive she is to just the crook of my finger. If I’d known this early on, I’d have solved every business discussion this way. I’d have insisted that she only wear skirts to work. I would have installed a wall of mirrors in my office and have her face them, have her watch her face as I fingered her, have her see exactly how motherfucking sexy she looks like this. I sweep my thumb over her clit and use my fingers in short thrusts, making sure to brush over that spot, her mouth falling open, short pants leaving it, her hips beginning to rock over me.

  “I will never want to share you with anyone.” I promise her, my eyes on her face, a jolt of pleasure coming through me as she squeezes her eyes shut, a low moan leaving her. I slow my motions. “Tell me you understand.”

  “Don’t stop,” she begs, her hand clawing at my chest. “I understand.”

  “I will never want another woman. Ever.” I resume the manipulation of my fingers and she tightens, the walls of her flexing around my fingers, her g-spot swelling. “There is not another woman who can ever compare to you.” She stiffens, her head dropping back, her neck exposed, and it takes all of my control to stay in place, to keep my fingers’ cadence. I use my other hand and run my palm over her bare breasts, vowing to spend all day tomorrow focused on them, dedicated to my worship of their perfect flesh. Her nipples tighten under my caress, and I bite my lips, the desire to suck them into my mouth almost impossible to resist.

  I don’t know how to convince her, how to tell her that what we just shared was a hundred times better than any sexual experience I’ve ever had. I don’t know how to explain that just the sound of her voice awakens my cock more than a hundred threesomes ever could. I don’t know how to tell her that the thought of sharing her twists my gut in the most painful way.

  “Do you understand?” I stop her orgasm in the breath before it comes, my fingers wilting, my voice strong enough to cause her eyes to flip open, and she grounds her hips on top of my hand, shamelessly trying to maintain my rhythm.

  “Yes,” she gasps. “I understand.”

  “Tell me you’ll marry me,” I order. “No buts.”

  She purses her lips and the hint of a dimple appears in her cheek. “You’re trying to negotiate marriage over an orgasm?”

  I push both fingers into her, cupping them, and watch the blur of her focus. “Yes, Kate. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  She gasps, and her hips lift off me as I increase the speed and depths of my movements, finger-fucking her toward the orgasm she wants, her mouth spreading into a smile as she grabs ahold of my other hand, holding it over her breast, her fingers squeez
ing mine into a grip, her flesh swelling through our fingers. “Yes,” she whispers, her eyes meeting mine, and I jerk my fingers out of her, my wet hand gripping her hip and pushing her back, my cock hard and waiting, the moment when I push her down on it—

  It’s the most beautiful moment of my life.

  Her eyes close, and she breathes out my name, her body shuddering around mine, and I pull her to my chest, holding her in place as my hips hammer upward—short, quick strokes that slap my pelvis against her clit and bury my cock into her heat, her inner walls tightening, then flexing, and when she comes, I can feel it rip through her entire body, her cry of my name more animal than human. She screams the word yes, first quick and shrill, then louder and longer, my movements not slowing, not easing, my control shredding as she gives me everything I want.

  When I come, it feels as if it lasts a minute, and if she ever stopped coming, I couldn’t tell. I give one last, deep thrust and then hold her against me, my cock twitching as the aftershocks tremble through me.

  I close my eyes, and I can’t stop the goofy smile from stretching over my face. I don’t know if she meant the proposal acceptance, but I’ve never been happier in my life.

  In this one moment, everything is perfect.

  Her

  I think he’s dead. He’s stretched out, stark ass naked, his eyes closed, a limp smile on that gorgeous face. His cock is lying across his stomach, and if sucking it will bring him back to life, I’ll be the first volunteer. I smile at the thought and roll off him, pushing to my feet and making my way to the windows, my limbs loose and lazy, my knees almost buckling as I reach up and grip the top of the window.