Page 23 of The Square

I smile at his face, which has a blueish tint to it from the reflection of the GPS screen. I can almost see the maps in his eyes. All the places he can go. All the possibilities.

That’s why he likes maps. He’s always needed to be heading somewhere.

“Stop thinking,” he says, still playing with me with one hand, while the other pops the button on his cargo shirts and drags down his zipper.

So I do.

Him. And me. Alone.

And it’s not like I don’t still want Alec, because I do. And I know he does too. But until last night I’ve never had Danny’s full attention the way that Icelandic girl did back in Reykjavik.

He stands up, taking me with him, and I automatically wrap my legs around his middle as he carries me over to the teak table and sets me down. Pushes me backwards with fingertips pressing against my clavicles.

I grin at him as I lower myself.

He doesn’t even wait to appreciate the grin. Just slips his hands under my knees, lifts my legs up and places his mouth on my pussy. His eyes are open, locked on mine until the flicking of his tongue feels too good to hold his gaze and I close them, shutting out the world.

He hits my sweet spot and I close my legs against the sides of his head on instinct. His beard is just a little too scratchy so it rubs against the inside of my upper thighs, but I don’t care. I grab fistfuls of his too-long, too-blond hair, and push him deeper.

He responds by gripping the underside of my thighs. Pressing his thumbs into my flesh like he wants to leave marks.

I think he will.

There will be bruises tomorrow. But I don’t care.

And just as I think that, he pushes me, my back sliding on the smooth teak. And when my eyelids flutter open, he has that look again. That gleam, or sparkle, or hint of red or purple lurking behind the blue of his eyes.

He’s jacking off as I watch. And then he leans over, all the way over me, and kisses my mouth. But at the same time his free hand takes my hand and brings it up over my head until it bumps up against the railing that surrounds the u-shape of the seating area around the table.

“Grab on to that,” he says.

I do.

“Both hands,” he clarifies.

I reach my other arm up, grab the cold metal, and grip it tight.

“Now,” he says in his new, not-blue voice. “Do not let go. No matter what.”