Chapter 22
Vivian
Clinton holds my hand on the entire drive back. The ride is quiet but comfortable, a companionable silence. It’s strange how I feel so much like myself with him. There’s no need to put on airs or fill the void with meaningless banter. Being with him just feels natural. Like he accepts me without needing me to put on a show, proving my worthiness.
When my car pulls up in the driveway, he leans under his seat and grabs a small gift bag. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it earlier when he came to pick me up. I guess I was just so distracted by how handsome he looked and how excited I was to be on his arm. It must have thrown me off my game.
“Is that for me?” I ask, my curiosity causing me to crane my neck for a peek inside the bag as he climbs out of the car.
He strides up toward my front door like it’s no big deal at all. “Maybe…”
I loop around the hood of the car, chasing after him as fast as my heels will let me. “Maybe?”
He swings the bag out of my reach when I make a grab for it. “Maybe…”
Laughing, I try to pry it from him again. He ducks out of my grasp.
“Lemme see,” I whine, laughing as he continues to keep the bag away from me.
“Don’t get handsy, woman!” He dashes across the porch and hunches his back protectively as he clenches the bag to his chest.
I’m laughing, loud and ruckus, not caring that my neighbors might see or that gossip will start spreading around my tight-knit little cul-de-sac. Despite the fact that I’m in heels and a dress, I hop onto his back and try to wrestle the bag away. He won’t let me win so easy. He fights back, fingers locked around my wrist to keep me from grabbing.
I slide off of his back, landing heavily on my feet. And now, it’s a full-on brawl. Every time I try to snatch the bag, he blocks me and whenever he has the upper hand, all he does is tickle me. Now, it’s not about the bag anymore. It’s about winning. I wanna win!
I make one last lunge for it and I catch it finally…right as I’m falling gracelessly to the wooden floor.
The bag tears apart in my descent and its contents spill onto the deck. Lying there, breathless and flat on my belly, my mouth falls open in shock.
“You got me lube for my birthday?” My eyes dart up to Clinton’s smirking face.
He crouches down beside me to help me up to a seated position.
“You see lube. I see your full and complete sexual liberation, Sunflower.” He flashes a wink.
My cheeks heat up as I look at the paraphernalia scattered across the floor. Along with the tube of female lubricant, there’s a pair of handcuffs, some condoms, a blindfold, edible panties and something that looks like a ping-pong racket made of leather and metal spikes. My heart thumps when I feel his knuckles on my chin, lifting my face to his.
His lips come close to my ear. “You’ll never forget this night, Vivian. I’ll make sure of it.” The rasp in his voice causes my insides to tauten. The air leaves my lungs.
There’s a wicked glimmer in his gaze when he rises to his feet and stretches a hand out to me. I place my palm in his and it feels symbolic, like I’m placing my heart in his care.
As I fumble with my key in the lock, he gathers up the sexy items scattered across the porch and tucks the torn bag under his arm. We step into the house and I hang my jacket on the hook. His hand settles on my hip. The warmth of it ignites lust right beneath the surface of my skin.
My knees shake as I lead the way down the hallway to my bedroom. I want him so bad it almost scares me. It’s not just the sex I’m craving. It’s the connection. When Clinton is inside of me, rutting and panting into the curve of my neck, a fire roars to life like nothing I’ve ever felt. It’s a coming-together, a joining that’s addictive because it fills a void I never even realized was there.
Once we’re standing in the doorframe, I spin around and grab him by the collar, pulling him down so our lips touch. He drops the torn bag and the items tumble to the floor. His lips dance with mine, eager and fervent, soft but needy. Strong arms rope around my back. Thick fingers trace the length of my spine. I angle my head and his tongue laps down my neck, tasting my skin, licking the tender flesh.
He pulls back and leans his forehead on mine. “You’re so beautiful, Vivian. Do you know that?”
I swallow hard as my heart volleys about in my chest. “You make me feel beautiful. No one’s ever made me feel the way you do.” He has this way of looking at me, of touching me that makes me feel that he’s what I’ve been waiting for all my life. This is insane. Merely a week ago, I was wishing I’d never see him again and now, the idea of him leaving scares me so much I can’t even stand it.
He runs his fingers through my hair and my arms lock around his neck. “I want to make you understand. Tonight, I want to make you understand how amazing you are…” His hand goes under my dress and smooths up the back of my thigh before his fingers pinch the lace trim of my panties. His voice is lewd and low. “Will you let me?”
Instantly, I’m throbbing. I squirm when I feel a trickle of wetness rolling down my inner wall and dribbling into my underwear. I want him to explore my body but when I think back to the sex toys he showed up with, my hesitation steps in, determined to ruin the fun.
“I need wine…” I whisper hoarsely because I want to leave my fear out of the equation tonight.
He leans back and grins, running his hands down my tense shoulders. “Sounds like a good idea.”
He trails me into the kitchen. My belly is tight from having him this close, from knowing his intentions for me. He wants to do vile, filthy, dirty things to my body. And I want to let him.
Grabbing a wedge of cheese from the fridge, I set it on the cutting board with a knife. I take a bottle of cabernet from the wine cabinet along with the corkscrew. Clinton is behind me, his erection hot on my back, his nose buried in my hair. He glides his fingers up my sides and then cups my heavy breasts in his hands. Every inch of me sings with desire.
With tingling hands, I angle the wine opener at the cork of the bottle. And right then, Clinton nips at my ear, breathing hotly against the side of my face. For a split second, I lose my composure and my hands slip. The tip of the corkscrew dives into the thick wood of the cutting board and snaps.
I yelp in surprise and Clinton chuckles into my ear. Turning to him over my shoulder, I grunt. “Hey, not funny. I seriously need this wine if I’m gonna get through whatever it is you have in store for me tonight and I just broke the wine opener, thanks to you.”
Releasing his grip on my waist, he laughs. “You worry too much.” He grabs the wine bottle. My fluffy house shoes are sitting on the mat by the back door. He bends over and snatches one up. I furrow my brows in confusion when he slides the butt of the bottle inside of the slipper. Before I can ask him what the plan is, the guy is hammering the shoe on the corner of the wall.
“Oh my god!” Alarmed, I squeak. “What are you doing?”
A few more whacks and the cork pops right out of the bottle. A satisfied smile plays on his lips as he drops the slipper to the floor. Like opening a wine bottle with a bedroom slipper is a normal, everyday occurrence.
I erupt into laughter. He flashes me a look of pride as he saunters past me and opens the cabinet. “Pretty cool, huh?”
I have to admit that it is. “I never knew you could open wine that way. I half-expected that the bottle was about to shatter in your hands.”
“True skill, Sunflower. True skill.”
He grabs two glasses and puts them on the counter. Before he can pour the wine into the goblets, I throw a hand over his wrist to stop him. “Wait—those are the champagne flutes. Let me get the wine glasses.” I edge in between him and the counter and rise onto my toes to grab the correct glasses.
His arm bands around my belly and holds me back. He brings the bottle directly to his mouth and sucks down a long gulp. “Tonight, there are no rules. No guidelines. No etiquette. No instructions. You hear me?” The dark promise in his voice sends a shiver across my skin.
I gasp when he glides the bottle between my thighs and the pressure of the hard glass against my clit makes me hiss. I nod my head. He presses kisses to my neck and to the knots of my spine as he lays down the wine and slowly unties the straps of my halter. The fabric collapses readily and the cool air brushes my nipples. His palms cradle the erect little nubs and he squeezes them. Pleasure fires every which way inside of me.
He whispers things into my ear. Words that make me dizzy and eager. Words that make me thrum.
Now he’s spinning me to face him. Kissing me hard. Picking me up and setting me on the counter. His calloused thumb is flicking against my nipple in warm, tiny loops.
“Clinton…” I whisper his name as I close my eyes and throw my head back, giving him access to my neck. His lips skim my flesh, so soft that I frisson. His hand slides between my legs. The gentle caress contrasts with the rough grate of his stubble across my cheek, sending a flare of pleasure into my blood.
On first glance, he doesn’t seem like a man who’d be capable of tenderness. He looks hard and demanding—and he is, when the moment calls for it—but I’m getting a first-class trip to the side of him that’s gentle, patient and skilled in the art of supplying pleasure.
When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me, something so soft and adoring in his gaze. It holds me captive. I can’t look away. His thumb circles my clit before sliding across my wet, throbbing folds. “Let me inside, Vivian. Let me all the way in.” My heart can hear the many layers to that request.
Instantly, I spread my thighs wider and two fingers plunge into my channel. But I know that what he really wants is access to my heart. He wants me to hand it over to him completely. To entrust it to him. I’m not half as scared as I should be because even though this man is nothing like the mate I spent so many lonely nights painting in my mind and scribbling into the pages of my many journals, I just know that Clinton is exactly who I need. He opens the parts of me that I’ve been too scared to face. He sees the vulnerabilities under my polished finish. And he takes me the way I am with no expectation that I’ll become something else. That’s ultimately all I’ve ever really needed.
His fingertips brush my chin, pulling me from my thoughts. “Hey,” he whispers, his eyes searching mine. “I’m losing you.”
“I’m right here,” I promise quietly. My hands clamp down on his cheeks and I close my eyes when our lips touch. The sensations in my body ratchet up until they’re nearly unbearable. He works his fingers in my tunnel as his thumb brushes my clit with increasing pressure. My body responds by tightening. My breathing goes erratic.
Clinton pulls back to look at my face. “You want to come, Sunflower?” My walls clamp down on his fingers at the pure masculine grit in his tone. “Tell me you want to come, Vivian.”
I’m begging him, pleading with him as my spine arches. “Please. I want to come.” I squeeze my eyes shut against the glare of the overhead lights as my head tilts back. His fingers become frantic. With each thrust, the heel of his hand grinds into my clit. My restraint is slipping, my defenses are coming apart.
The orgasm bombards my system, causing light explosions to flare behind my eyes and guttural exclamations to burst out of my mouth. My thighs clench violently and my calves lock behind his back. He doesn’t seem to mind being hostage to my pleasure. He works tirelessly to deliver it.
One of his strong arms holds me up while the other continues to strum my clit, playing me like a somber guitar riff until my body begins to quiet. The explosions die down and all that’s left are the fumes.
I collapse into his embrace and wrap my arms tight around him as I struggle to find my breath.
He tries to lean back and watch me but I refuse to move my head from his neck. Confusion riots in my mind as I try to figure out who the hell I’m becoming. I don’t know this girl. This girl who gets fingered on the counter and begs for it shamelessly and howls so hard at the climax that the cabinet windows shake.
Sex isn’t something you do in the kitchen next to a wedge of artisanal cheddar. It’s something you do under the covers with the lights off, keeping your whimpers to a reasonable volume. Loud enough so that he knows you appreciate his efforts but definitely not loud enough to vibrate the walls, not loud enough to wake the whole damn neighborhood.
Clinton seems to sense my inner conflict but he says nothing. He just scoops me into his arms and carries me into my bedroom.