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Ian’s eyes dart past me, out the glass, where the faint sounds of rehearsal can still be heard.
“You know the booth has tinted glass,” he says, one of his hands making its way up my thigh so slowly I have a renewed understanding of the term “sexual frustration.”
Just touch me already, goddamn it.
“Mm-hmm . . .” I make a noise so he knows I heard him. His neck is an inch from my mouth, close enough to just . . .
I brush my lips over his jaw at the spot just under his ear. A noise escapes from the back of his throat, encouraging me. I do it again—for my own enjoyment and for his.
“But someone could see if they looked hard enough,” he says, his voice strained.
Something about this sends pleasure signals through all of me. Little sparks of excitement burst under my skin, and I grip his hips, crushing him against me. The hand he’s been sliding up my thigh pauses right at the top, squeezing hard enough that I’ll look for small, fingerprint-shaped bruises tomorrow.
“It’s soundproof too,” he says, and his breath catches as I sweep my hand over the front of his jeans, curiosity ever knocking at my door. It’s no surprise that I find him hard, his jeans straining and tight. What is a surprise is how much of him there is even through his jeans. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that. I want to take him in my hand and stroke him until he forgets anyone else who touched him before me, but I think he’ll move my hand away if I try, so I settle for my over-the-clothes exploration.
“Soundproof. Really?” I murmur against his neck. I feel drunk on this man, on his woodshop and Old Spice scent, on the way his skin feels against my lips. The way his breath catches as I kiss his neck, tongue and teeth, is more intoxicating than any drink I’ve ever had.
“So you can be as loud as you want,” he murmurs as his hand crawls the last few inches to the part of me I’m most desperate for him to touch. He strokes a knuckle over the front of my thong to find me soaked, and the way he bites his lip and leans his forehead against my shoulder tells me he likes what he found. He does it again, and those small movements send such a rush through me—a wave of pleasure so delicious I don’t even fight the moan it elicits from me.
He kisses me, taking that noise into his mouth. And when he moves the lace aside to slide his finger along my opening, I worry my heart is beating too hard, that I might pass out, because it all feels too good. Every movement, every stroke and graze, sends blossoms of pleasure to every corner of my body. There isn’t an inch of me that doesn’t feel the expert movements he’s making. It’s all too much, and it’s building to something that’s going to make me lose myself.
I start to unzip his jeans again, needing an outlet for my own desire, but with his free hand he plucks my hand away, setting it back on the counter.
“Ladies first,” he says with an authority I’ve never seen in him but find so deeply attractive that I do what he says. A smile flits across his lips, and then he’s studying me, his eyes drinking me in. “You are so fucking gorgeous,” he says, holding my gaze as he slides a finger inside.
I groan, forgetting anything but the feel of him inside of me. I cover my mouth, suddenly remembering we’re not entirely alone, but Ian looks unfazed.
“It’s soundproof,” he reminds me. “But even if it wasn’t . . . let them hear.”
We’re both panting, soft moans punctuated by kisses as he pumps a finger in and out of me, circling my clit with his thumb. He presses his forehead against mine, eyes closed, and I take the opportunity to watch him.
Pleasure is written all over his face—the one language I have no trouble reading. He looks like he’s the one close to an orgasm; like he’s enjoying touching me as much as I’m enjoying being touched. There’s something else on his face too, though, that I can’t quite read, but he opens his eyes, and my secret study of him is over.
He slides a second finger inside of me, eliciting another, louder noise from me, and I clutch his arm, certain that anysecond now I’m going to tip right over the edge. But I don’t want to finish like this. I want to finish with him inside me. My need is a fuse barreling toward explosives, and despite being scolded last time, I reach for him again—but Ian is quick. He swivels his hips and steps back, taking his hand with him. I gasp as his fingers leave me, the sudden absence of him a shock to my system.
“Uh-uh,” he chides. “I said . . .”—he leans close, his lips almost touching mine—“ladies first.”
He takes my hands in his and steps back, pulling me off the counter. The moment my feet touch the floor, he spins me, holding me to him with my back against his chest, one hand pinning me to him by my hip. Gathering my skirt, he hands it to me, and I hold it up while bracing myself against the counter. He wastes no time, pulling aside the fabric of my thong again to stroke me with two fingers.
“Oh my god, Ian.”
I can’t figure out where my surprise ends and where the pure ecstasy of this moment begins. He knows exactly where to touch me and finds the right pressure and speed without my having to guide him. His fingers stroke my swollen, aching clit, while his other hand slides up my body and into my bra. Taking one of my nipples in his fingers, he pinches and circles it, doubling my pleasure.
I can’t control my breathing at this point, and if I was even the slightest bit self-conscious, I don’t know if I could enjoy this moment. I’m entirely at his mercy. Putty in his hands. I’m close to my climax, and I think he can tell, because he slows down.
“Are you watching me touch you?” he asks, his lips right against my ear. The lighting from outside the booth creates a mirror effect on the glass, and facing away from him, I don’t just see the actors onstage—I can also see Ian and myself. It’s so fucking hot, watching him work me in multiple places justto bring me to the end of my pleasure. The only things I can manage right now are the sounds of pleasure he’s coaxing out of me and a weak nod of my head. We make eye contact in the glass, our reflections just barely there, and for a second, everything else disappears. It’s just me and Ian and his hands and my pleasure, and if I had it my way, I’d stretch this moment out far past its limits.
There’s a loud bang and some laughter onstage, and both Ian and I tense, freezing. I’d forgotten there were people down there. Our peers and our classmates are mere feet from me and Ian, and once again I find myself in the position of potentially getting caught. The idea should scare me. It should have me straightening my clothes and getting the hell out of Dodge. But for some reason, the idea of getting caught with Ian like this just sends a throb of desire through me.
“Keep going,” I say quietly.
He slides his hand out of my shirt and moves it up my chest. For a second, I think he’s going to cover my mouth, like maybe he got spooked by the noises onstage. But his hand comes to rest over my neck, his fingers draped against my vocal cords and my pulse as if to amplify my noise. As if maybe he’s as thrilled by the idea of getting caught as I am.
His fingers work faster, a little harder, and my moans grow bolder. He buries his face into my neck, and I gasp as his teeth sink into a sensitive spot.
“Jade,” he murmurs against my skin, and that’s all it takes for me. I’m over the edge, not caring who hears me say his name wrapped in pleasure.
He slows his strokes, teasing me still, riding out my orgasm to the very end. Then Ian moves his hands to envelop me in a hug, holding me against him as I catch my breath.
