Sweet Temptations

REKINDLED FLAMES 2

He didn’t give her a moment to recover, to think. With her still shuddering from the aftershocks of her climax, her dress pooled around her waist and her panties torn and useless around one thigh, he turned her around. His hands were firm on her hips, guiding her away from the HVAC unit’s shelter and toward the low, glass-and-steel ledge that bordered the terrace. The city sprawled below them, a billion glittering lights indifferent to their desperation.

“Leo, what…?” The question was swallowed by the wind as he bent her forward at the waist. Her palms slapped against the cold, smooth surface of the ledge. The wind, previously an annoyance, now bit at her exposed back, her bare ass, the wet heat between her legs. It was a shocking, bracing contrast to the fever burning inside her.

“Right here,” he growled, his body pressing against her from behind. He was a solid wall of heat. One hand splayed across her lower back, holding her down. The other worked at his belt, his zipper. The sounds, the rasp of metal, the rustle of fabric, were stark and urgent against the city’s distant hum. “You said you wanted me. So you get me. Like this.”

She was trembling, but not from cold. From a need so deep it felt ancestral. The ledge was cold, unyielding against her cheek as she turned her head to the side. She saw the ghost of their reflection in the dark glass, a fragmented image of a powerful man poised over a willing, wanton woman. This is insane, part of her mind whispered. The rest of her was screaming yes.

She heard the tear of a foil packet. He came prepared. The thought sent a fresh, liquid pulse of heat through her. Of course he did. He’d seen her, wanted her, and intended to have her. The sheer, arrogant presumption of it should have made her furious. Instead, it made her push her hips back in a silent, wordless plea.

A low, approving rumble vibrated through him. He guided himself to her entrance, the broad head of his c**k nudging through her slick folds, spreading her open. He paused there, teasing, letting her feel the immense, familiar stretch just beginning.

“Look down,” he commanded, his voice rough in her ear. “Look at the city you conquered without me. And watch while I conquer you.”

Her eyes fluttered open. She saw the grid of streets, the tiny moving lights of cars, the dark ribbons of the river. Her domain. The life she’d built in the crater he’d left. Then she felt him push forward.

It was not a gentle joining. It was a reclamation, just like his kiss. He drove into her with one deep, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her tight, clinging heat.

A gasp, sharp and loud, was torn from her lungs. The sensation was overwhelming, the fullness, the rightness, the brutal friction after so many years of emptiness. He felt bigger than she remembered, or perhaps she was just more acutely aware of every inch. He fit her perfectly. He always had.

“f**k,” he hissed, his body going rigid against hers for a second, as if he, too, was stunned by the intensity of the connection. His hands clamped on her hips, fingers digging into her flesh.

Then he began to move.

There was no finesse, no leisurely pace. It was a frantic, desperate rhythm, born of five years of pent-up hunger. He pulled back almost all the way, letting the cold air kiss her wetness, then slammed back in. The impact jarred her forward, her breasts pressing against the cold glass. In. Out. In. Out. A punishing, perfect rhythm.

Each thrust was a punctuation mark on a sentence of loss and longing. The wind whipped her hair across her face. The cold of the ledge beneath her palms and cheek was a constant, thrilling counterpoint to the inferno he was stoking inside her. She could hear the wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies coming together, a vulgar, beautiful music drowned by the wind.

His rhythm was breaking her apart and rebuilding her all at once. One of his hands left her hip and fisted in her hair, pulling her head back, arching her spine. The new angle made him go even deeper, brushing a spot inside her that had her crying out with every drive.

“Is this what you needed?” he grunted, his breath hot on her neck. “All those nights in your big, lonely bed? This?”

“Yes!” she screamed, the word ripped from her. It was the truth. This raw, animal coupling was the antidote to the sterile, controlled loneliness of her life. He was erasing it, thrust by thrust.

“Who do you belong to?” he demanded, pounding into her harder, faster. The ledge felt like it might crack under their combined weight.

The question was a throwback to their past, to a time when she had willingly given him that claim. The old Avery, the one before the hurt, would have answered instantly. The new one hesitated for a fraction of a second.

He felt it. With a snarl, he leaned over her, his chest plastered to her back, his mouth at her ear. “Say it, Avery. Or I’ll stop. I’ll walk away and leave you right here, dripping and empty on this f*****g ledge.”

The threat was as potent as the s*x. The idea of him stopping, of this connection being severed again, was a terror greater than any humiliation.

“You!” she sobbed, the last of her professional armor shattering. “I belong to you, Leo! God, please…”

His reward was a deeper, harder thrust that lifted her toes off the ground. “Again.”

“You! I’m yours!” The admission, shouted into the void, felt like a liberation. It wasn’t a surrender of herself, it was an acknowledgment of a truth her body had never forgotten.

“Mine,” he echoed, the word a guttural possession. His pace became even more frantic, less controlled. He was chasing his own end now, his hips pistoning against her ass. The hand in her hair held her steady, a captive to his pleasure.

The friction, the angle, the sheer force of him was building another climax inside her, coiling tighter and tighter from the very first thrust. It was different from the one he’d given her with his fingers, this was darker, deeper, a crescendo built from the foundation of their shared history and present desperation.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice strained to breaking. “Gonna fill you up. Make you remember this.”

His words were the final trigger. The coil snapped. Her second climax ripped through her with even more violence than the first. It was a silent, seizing thing for a heartbeat, then a raw, continuous cry was torn from her throat as her inner muscles clamped down on him in rapid, milking pulses. She saw nothing but white light, felt nothing but the devastating waves of pleasure radiating from her core.

Feeling her convulse around him was his undoing. With a choked, animalistic roar, he drove in one last, punishing time and held himself deep. She felt the hot pulse of his release through the thin barrier of the condom, a rhythmic throb that seemed to go on and on, syncing with the final tremors of her own orgasm.

For a long moment, they stayed locked together, bent over the city, both of them breathing in ragged, shattered gasps. The wind cooled the sweat on their skin. Slowly, the world rushed back in, the sound of traffic, the distant wail of a siren, the mundane reality thirty stories below.

He was the first to move, softening inside her, carefully withdrawing. The loss of him left her feeling hollowed out and profoundly full at the same time. He turned her around, his hands gentle now on her arms. Her dress was still tangled around her waist, her body exposed and used. He looked into her face, her eyes glazed, her lips swollen, her cheek red from the cold glass.

He didn’t speak. He simply pulled the straps of her dress back up over her shoulders, his fingers surprisingly tender as he guided her arms through. He zipped the side of her dress, the sound mundane and final. He bent, picked up the torn lace of her panties, looked at them for a second, then tucked them into his own suit pocket. A souvenir. A claim.

He straightened her hair with his fingers, tucking the wild strands behind her ears with a focus that was almost reverent. The man who had just f****d her with savage desperation was now carefully reassembling the professional woman.

The silence stretched, filled only by their slowing breaths. The unspoken question hung between them, heavier than before.

“Shall we return to the party?” he asked, his hand outstretched.

She looked down at his hand, she knew what it meant, it was an invitation, an invitation to what was lost in the past, if she took his hand, she was walking back to the life she had labored to leave.

“Thank you, Mr. Thorne, I think I can manage on my own” the professionalism was back in her voice.

Leo raised a brow as he looked at her.

Avery adjusted her hair and walked past him, the click of her heels filling the night air.

A smile curved Leo’s lips as she disappeared into the elevator.

She wanted to be chased. It was a good thing, he loved a good chase.