I'm not sure how he manages to pretend that he didn't spend hours between my thighs last night, worshipping my body until I was barely even aware of it anymore.
I understand why. Or, I do in theory. We work together and it would be massively unprofessional if anyone realized he was spending all those late mornings in his room with the photographer. He says he has a hard rule about dating crew members. He says this works because we're not dating.
I wonder what he'll say when he realizes I'm in love with him. And not just with the way he digs his fingertips into my hips just before he loses control, or the way he breathes my name against the hollow of my throat. Not just the way his mouth knows every inch of me, or how he kisses me so tenderly that I can't stop myself from falling. Into his arms. Into his bed. Under his spell.
He is intoxicating in that way a well mixed cocktail is. It dissolves your guard and inhibition while you aren't looking, and tugs you under without realizing you've slipped at all. You sip the drink until the straw meets only air, and you think your head's still clear. But when you try to stand, the room tilts on its axis and you take a step as it pitches. This is when you realize you missed the approaching edge and catapulted over it- drunk. That's what he does to me.
We didn't intend to start hooking up, and swore the first time would be the last. But when he came back for more, I was too weak to turn him away. Too enamoured with the way he sprinkled kisses across my skin and reached places inside me that I didn't even know existed. Every move he made was a calculated exploration intended to bring his partner- for now, me- as much pleasure as possible. He was slow and deliberate with the brush of his fingers, the swirl of his tongue and the rhythm of his hips. It was delicious torture as he meandered through every method of pleasure he could possibly draw from my body and he delighted in doing so.
I'd never met a man that loved loving my body the way that he did. A man that would keep going for minutes or hours after his own orgasm if that's what it took to deliver me to the space where my tongue was too heavy to speak thoughts that were too blurry to see and all of my awareness existed only in the afterglow of his attention.
I dropped my gaze to the floor when he walked by, submissive and attempting to maintain our cover. I wasn't certain I could even meet his gaze without blushing after the way he'd pressed his hips against mine this morning, making tiny tremors of motion while his fingertips danced up my spine and tangled in my hair until I came undone around him. His smile after was always something to behold, and as he sauntered past me toward the stage for soundcheck, I learned that it lingered hours into the day since he was still wearing it.
