Some say that our lives are defined by the sum of our choices but it isn't really our choices that distinguish who we are . . . it's our commitment to them. In an arranged marriage, love is a luxury; friendship is not.
(Oliver Q./OC)
"Was there ever a day when you were just . . . happy to be away from everything? No pressure from your family; no need to be the person that everyone expects you to be." - Helena Bertinelli, 1.07
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What was the saying? Once more, with feeling . . .?
My hands slipped from his chest to his pants, yanking on the strong waistband of his jeans, nearly clipping my fingernails on the button. Wanting. Hungry for what he had to offer, what he had to give.
Oliver hissed through his teeth, "We're doing it like this?"
"Exactly like this," I panted, already palming the flesh that spilled into my hands.
His chest trembled, breaths hitching a little at that first long, deep stroke. He didn't close his eyes, and I didn't look away. Basking in the quiet eroticism of watching him, watching me, touch him. He felt like velvet over steel.
His large, strong hand caressed my face, and he dragged me forward, reclaiming my mouth. There was an edge to this kiss I savored, moving with him, pulling deeper. Something different from last night. Saltier. This kiss wasn't patient, it didn't seduce or persuade.
It took.
And I gave, demanding no less. I couldn't taste the sugar, the vanilla, from the cream puffs we'd had but I could taste him. Oliver's hands were rough as he swept down, hooking my shirt to pull it up. That first brush of callused fingers on bare skin – I broke away just long enough for my shirt to clear my head.
The collision was impending and electric.
And still, I had hold of him. Indulging in those long, deliberate strokes mirroring slow, deliberate thrusts. The sounds he made guttural, and encouraging. Everything about him was hard and strong and just a little rough.
Hands swept over my bare skin. On top. This time, I was on top. But Oliver was in no way a passive recipient. Straddling him. His hand slid between my legs. He was careful, putting just enough pressure on that sensitive place, stroking in tight little circles that made my body go both utterly loose and tight enough to snap.
His mouth slid over my jaw, trailing down to my throat. The scrape of his stubbled jaw rough, and static; my body trembled lust, with want for more. He dragged his mouth to my collarbone and, finally, to the front clasp of my bra.
His eyes flipped to mine as he reached up and sprang the fastening.
He didn't let the two sides snap apart but held them in place. Inch by delicious inch he kissed his way to my breast, gradually exposing skin until he revealed the nipple. Only then did he pull the lace cup off entirely.
No hesitation. Oliver latched onto what he'd bared and as warm, wet suction drew on my nipple I threw my shoulders down and back; letting my bra fall away. My breaths hitching. I couldn't quite remember how to breathe.
