Page 24 of Remmen

A sound came out of his chest that I felt in my own ribs before I heard it. “You have no idea how easy it would be.”

“Trust me.” I found the smooth curve of a horn and gripped it for balance, and he made that sound again, louder, and his hips came up under me.

His breath punched out of him. His forehead came down against mine. He was fighting for control and losing it, and I put my mouth on his throat where the pulse was hammering and quit helping him hold on.

He got a hand under the hem of my shirt and shoved it up, until it bunched just above my breasts, and then his hands were on bare skin and I forgot how to breathe. His palm was rough and hot and so big it covered half my ribs, and a shiver went chasing after it.

He was so warm. Everywhere he touched lit up and stayed lit, and I wanted his hands everywhere at once.

He palmed one breast and then the other, huge hands all but swallowing me, and even now I could feel the care in it, the restraint strung tight through him, right on the edge of going. His thumbs dragged over my nipples until they drew up tight and an ache pulled hard and low in my belly and I moaned into his mouth. Then he bent his head and closed his mouth over one and sucked, the wet heat and the flat of his tongue and the careful scrape of his teeth, and I felt it pull all the way down, a hot wire from his mouth to the throb between my legs.

I arched up into it and made a sound I didn’t know I had in me. I didn’t recognize the woman making it, and I didn’t want to. She was having a far better time than I ever let myself have.

He dragged his mouth to the other breast and gave it the same, slow and thorough, in no hurry at all, his free hand keeping the first, thumb rolling my wet nipple until I was writhing in his lap and digging my nails into his shoulders, already needing more than his mouth could give me.

I couldn’t stay still. I was rocking down against the hard muscle of his thigh, shameless about it, chasing the friction, the seam of my jeans dragging tight over my clit with every roll of my hips and winding the ache tighter and tighter. Then I shifted higher and felt him underneath me, the heavy length of his cock through his trousers, so much bigger than it had any business being, and I lost my breath over it. I ground down against that instead, slow, felt him twitch under me, and we both groaned, and I felt his groan go through his chest and into mine.

Something soft-tufted slid warm up the outside of my leg and curled over my thigh. His tail. One more part of him on me, holding me without holding me down, and I was surrounded on every side and still nowhere near close enough. I wanted him out of those clothes. I wanted him to quit being careful. I wanted him, plain and enormous and unmanageable, and I’d stopped being able to keep quiet about a single part of it.

He brought a hand between us and pressed the heel of it against me through my jeans, right where I ached for him, and I bucked into it before I could stop myself. He did it again, slow, and again, watching what it did to my face, until I was grinding down onto his hand, soaked clean through the denim, chasing it.

“Tell me you want this,” he said against my skin, wrecked.

“Don’t you dare stop.”

He worked his hand down between us, past the waist of my jeans and into my underwear, and when his fingers found me I was drenched, shameless with it. He groaned like it hurt him. “Stars, Anne,” he breathed against my jaw, and dragged one thick finger through the slick of me, slow, base to clit and back, spreading me open with it until I was slippery and swollen and rocking up into his hand for more. Every pass over my clit punched a fresh sound out of me.

He circled my entrance with one blunt fingertip, teasing, not giving it to me, until I was pushing down onto his hand trying to take it myself. “Please,” I said, past pride, and I felt him groan against my throat.

Then he pushed one finger into me, and then a second, so much thicker than my own that the stretch of just that had me gasping, my body clenching down around them, greedy, my forehead dropping to his shoulder. Two fingers and I was already full, already stretched around him, and it only made me want the rest of him, want to be split open and filled up, want things I’d never once said out loud.

He held them there a moment, letting me take the stretch, then started to move, drawing them out slow and pushing back in, deep, over and over, until the stretch quit being too much and turned into pure filthy pleasure. I could hear how wet I was, the slick of his hand working me in the quiet of the cab, and it should have embarrassed me and instead it only wound me tighter.

He was unhurried and exact and merciless with it, curling those thick fingers up into a place I hadn’t known was there and going back to it every time it made me jerk, the heel of his hand grinding right where I needed him, his mouth hot and open at my throat. “That’s it,” he growled into my skin. “Let me feel it.” And it built, low and deep and inevitable, winding tighter with every stroke until my hips were riding his hand on their own, past anything I was deciding, my whole body drawn up to the edge. And then it broke. It tore up through me in waves and I rode his hand and swore and came with a high, keening wail I couldn’t have swallowed if the whole town had been listening. He worked me through every second of it, wringing it out of me, gentling only when I did, until I was boneless and twitching and still fluttering around his fingers.

I dropped my face into his neck and breathed him in, shaking, wrung out, my heart slamming like it wanted out through my ribs. He was still rock-hard and enormous under me and he hadn’t asked me for anything back, and somehow that got to me worse than anything he’d done. I wanted to give it back, all of it. I got a hand between us and fumbled at his belt, clumsy and greedy, wanting my palm around him, wanting to feel him lose it the way I just had.

He made a low rough sound and caught the hem of my shirt and hauled it up, trying to drag it off over my head, and it snagged on my arm and I heard the seam start to tear, a thin sharp sound in the closed cab.

We both went still.

“Fuck,” I breathed.

“Anne.” His voice was ruined.

“I know.” My forehead stayed on his. “I know. We can’t. We really can’t.”

Neither of us moved. I was still in his lap, my shirt shoved up around my ribs, his hand splayed enormous and warm on the bare skin of my back, and he was hard as iron under me and doing nothing about it but breathe.

There was a contract back home that spelled out in plain letters why this couldn’t happen. And I didn’t need fine print to tell me it was a mistake to fool around with the freaking mayor, no matter how good it felt.

But pulling away felt like dragging myself through cement and I wanted just one more minute with him.

“This can’t happen again,” I said, into his neck.

His hand didn’t stop moving on my back. His other one found mine and folded around it, swallowed it whole.

“No,” he agreed. “It can’t.”