“Couch is right there. Bedroom around the corner,” I say, and my voice doesn’t sound like me. It’s husky, breathy, completely unfamiliar.
“Couch is closer.” He guides us a few steps in that direction but stops to kiss me again, like he can’t help himself, licking my bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth.
To keep from melting to the floor, I wrap my arms around his neck and press my body to his. He’s deliciously solid, thick and strong where I’m not.
His arms close around me, and I feel his hands smooth up and down my back, before gripping my hips and pulling me close, onto my tiptoes. I gasp into his kiss as his hardness settles into the cradle of my thighs. Inside, I clench with a pure wanting. I’ve had sex hundreds of times, more probably, but I’ve never ached for it like this. I can’t quite grasp why everything is different now.
My back meets the cushions of the couch, and Quan settles against me, kissing my mouth, my jaw. “You still with me?” he asks against my neck, and shivers race down my spine.
I can’t talk, so I run my hands down his chest until I find the hem of his shirt and pull it up. His eyes meet mine for a burning second before he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it to the ground.
Thought fails me as I touch shaking fingers to the lean muscles of his abdomen, push my palms up to his wide chest. He’s scalding hot, but smooth, starkly masculine. I can feel his heart beating, his lungs rising and falling. The sight of my unmarked skin against the dense designs inked onto him mesmerizes me. There are crashing black waves with intricate detail like in a Japanese watercolor painting, a water dragon, wide-sailed ships. I trace my fingertips along the calligraphy that continues from his neck down one side of his chest, ending beneath his ribs. I want to know the story written in his skin, but I suspect it’s too personal to be shared with me.
Hidden in the waves by his right hip, my fingers find … a small octopus, and I draw in a sharp breath and gaze at him in wonder. “You have …”
He grins. “That’s the tattoo you want to talk about? Out of all of them?”
“Is it the one from the documentary?”
“Nah,” he says, smiling wider before he kisses my neck. “I got that one a long time ago. I like the ocean and sea creatures and things.”
“Are octo—” His lips part, and the wet heat of his mouth sears my skin. I forget what I was talking about. All I know is the feel of his lips, his tongue, his teeth. I arch closer to him, unable to control the sounds coming from my throat.
The front of my dress falls open as he kisses his way to my collarbones and down to the edge of my bra. Instead of going through the work of undoing the clasps in back, he yanks it down, baring my breasts to the cool air for an instant before he sucks my nipple into his mouth. My entire being tightens in response, my stomach, my core, between my thighs.
“You’re really good at that,” I hear myself say, my surprise evident in the wondering tone of my voice.
He releases my nipple from his mouth, and a knowing smile touches his lips. Watching me, he licks the hardened tip, nuzzles the underside of my breast, and takes a tiny bite, sending a starburst of sensation washing over me in a red haze before he soothes me with his warm palm. He kisses his way to my other breast and teases me. He blows on my nipple, licks it lightly, pinches it with his fingertips, and then he takes me into his mouth and draws with exquisite pressure.
I cling to him, alternately gasping and hissing through my teeth as he caresses me with his hands and mouth. It turns out I am absolutely crazy about breast play. I had no clue.
When our lips meet again, I kiss him with abandon, tangling my tongue with his as I touch him everywhere my hands can reach. His chest, his shoulders, the broad expanse of his back, his head. His closely buzzed hair scrapes against my palms in the most interesting way.
He shifts against me, pulling my thigh up along his side, and rolls his hips. I feel him, hard where I’m soft, and I know what’s coming. The good part of sex is ending, and the not-so-good part is starting. I don’t mind, though. This has been the best sex of my life.
I expect him to sit back and remove our underwear so we can get things moving, but he doesn’t. He continues kissing me, touching me. One hand cups my face, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper. With his other hand, he strokes my thigh, my butt, squeezes it.
“What do you like, Anna?” he whispers.
When I stare at him, completely stunned by the question, he works his hand between us and eases his fingers beneath the waistband of my underwear. I catch my breath when his fingertips slip through my folds and explore me with languid strokes. I’m wet, extremely so, and that’s unusual for me. When Julian and I have sex, it’s uncomfortable for both of us until my body eventually warms up and self-lubricates, but even then, I’m not like this.