Group Therapy, page 16
“I think you know exactly what you’re doing,” he says, his jaw clenched and muscles taut.
“And what’s that?” I breathe.
“Making me do this …”
One heartbeat. That’s all it takes to go from wishing Thomas would kiss me to being engulfed by him. When he kissed me in the bar, it was fleeting, jovial, a burst of adrenaline seeking an outlet. But this kiss is anything but impulsive. This kiss is intentional and powerful and feels like a promise.
I wrap my hand around the back of Thomas’s neck, sighing inwardly as my fingertips glide over the short, downy soft hair that I never thought I’d get the chance to feel. Lifting up onto my tiptoes, I unknowingly press down on the edge of the hammered bowl and cringe as the deafening clatter of two-dozen wooden lemons and limes bouncing off the marble floor fills the foyer. The sound brings a smile to Thomas’s hungry mouth as warmth blooms in my chest and across my cheeks.
“Would you like a tour?” those smiling lips murmur against mine.
“Now?”
“Mmhmm,” Thomas growls as he slides his hands over my ass and lifts me off the ground.
I squeal and wrap my legs around his waist as he chuckles and gives my plump backside a squeeze. His lips never leave mine as he carries me down the hallway. I shed my purse, my oversize cardigan, and my Chuck Taylors along the way, adding them to the pile of things that don’t belong on the floor.
“Kitchen,” The word vibrates against my lips as we pass a well-lit, ultra-modern space that looks like a team of astronauts could pilot it to Mars.
Swiveling toward the cozy expanse just off the kitchen, Thomas breaks our kiss long enough to whisper, “Sitting room.”
My mouth falls open in disbelief.
It looks like something off of one of my secret Pinterest boards. Swaths of grays and midnight blues and tufted ottomans and fuzzy throw pillows surround a fireplace, flanked by a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows facing downtown Atlanta. The setting sun bathes the west side of the skyscrapers in one last splash of light, and the low-hanging clouds above soak it up like pink cotton balls.
My kiss-swollen lips fall open as I take in the splendor that Thomas gets to enjoy for free. “I think I can see my office from here,” I marvel before pulling his T-shirt off over his head.
Next, Thomas carries me past a small room attached to the living room. It is filled by a massive wooden table with a surface so shiny I can see the clouds floating by upside down on it. The chairs that surround it are overstuffed and regal. And there, in the center, is yet another bowl of expertly carved wooden fruit.
“Dining,” Thomas mutters, claiming my mouth again as he continues past.
But then he stops.
“Actually …” With a spin and a few steps, Thomas walks over to the dining table and sets me down on the edge. He leans forward until I’m flat on my back and he’s hovering over me. “I’ve never eaten in this room before,” Thomas teases as his mouth begins to roam leisurely down the side of my neck.
My jugular pounds against his lips. My fingers find their way into his hair just so that I have something to hold on to. I am completely untethered from reality, literally floating nineteen stories above the city in some fantasy world where Thomas O’Reardon is peeling my plaid work pants off and the chandeliers have little baby chandeliers hanging off of them. I suddenly have to fight the urge to laugh.
Of course! I’m dreaming! It all makes sense now. Too bad though. I was really starting to—
A gasp bursts from my body as Thomas grabs my bare thighs and slides me toward him. Then, with a wicked smile that touches his eyes more than his swollen lips, he sinks down into the chair at the head of the table. The one right between my legs.
I hold my breath as Thomas’s warm hands wrap around my ankles, placing them on his shirtless shoulders before gliding their way back up to my thighs. My knees fall open with a gentle push, and I stare up at the crystal raindrops suspended in mid-downpour over my head to hide the flush creeping into my cheeks.
Sweet, hot breath and featherlight kisses trail down my inner thigh as two expert fingers glide over the satin of my panties. It’s too gentle—it’s all too gentle—serving as a cruel reminder that none of this is real. It’s like when you try to punch someone in a dream, but it feels like you’re hitting a pillow. Thomas’s touch, his caress, is just a simulation in my subconscious mind, a hollow echo of a memory. The thought sits heavily on my heart until his fingers are joined by a thumb. Until his lips give way to the grazing of teeth. Until that black strip of satin is pulled to the side and my aching is answered with one long swipe of his tongue.
It’s impossible to count the number of times I’ve fantasized about seeing that guarded blue gaze peering up at me from between my legs, but as I glance down the length of my body, I’m treated to that exact view. As if he can sense that I’m watching, Thomas’s stormy eyes connect with mine, gleaming under dark brows, as he drags his tongue over my flesh again.
Holy shit.
My head falls back against the table with a thunk.
I feel Thomas’s smile against my inner thigh. And then he goes to work.
I bite my lip and arch my back and close my thighs around his head as I struggle to cope with the immaculate sensations flooding my body. Swirling and sucking in a rhythm that matches the involuntary rise and fall of my hips, Thomas ruins me for all other mouths in a matter of seconds. When your only sexual experiences are a couple of clueless boys in high school, the handful of drunk guys you brought home from the bar, and your geriatric psychology professor, you don’t get … this.
Which means that this is definitely not a dream because how could my mind possibly conjure a feeling that it didn’t even know existed?
But figuring out how I conjured Thomas in the flesh? That’s even harder to fathom.
I peek down at the man assaulting me with pleasure again, searching for more validation that he’s not a figment of my imagination. Warm brown hair juts out from between my fingers. I run a thumb over the strands and marvel at the silky texture.
That feels real.
Thick, dark lashes spread out across enviously high cheekbones, which are the tiniest bit scratchy against my inner thighs.
Also real.
And his broad, bare shoulders are covered with not only my lower legs, but also a smattering of freckles the same color as his chestnut hair. Every detail is a living, breathing, tangible work of art, as is every flick and swirl of his expert tongue.
My breaths turn to pants, and my pants turn to moans as my back arches higher and higher off the table. Thomas waits until I’m as close to the edge as I can get, and then, with a single finger, he pushes me over.
My orgasm feels like a free fall into a pool full of static-charged cotton candy. Terrifying, and then tingly, and then fuzzy and sweet. When I open my eyes, I find Thomas braced over me on his forearms, and my heart swells. His hair is a tangled riot. His lips are fat and slick and curled up on one side. His eyes are hooded and dark. And his manhood, I realize, is pressed against the throbbing parts of me through the thick gray fabric of his sweatpants.
Thomas’s blown-out pupils bounce back and forth between my own before he finally speaks. “I would take you right here …” His voice is husky and low as he flexes his hips, applying the perfect amount of pressure to my oversensitized flesh.
“But?” I breathe, wishing he would do exactly that.
Thomas drops his forehead to mine and kisses me with that sex-smeared mouth. My heart twists as I prepare for him to let me down. Tell me we can’t do this. That I should go.
Thomas slides his hands under my shoulder blades and lifts me into a sitting position.
Here we go. He’s going to take a step back, hand me my pants, and tell me that he got his “inspiration” for the weekend.
But he doesn’t. With another soft kiss and his dick still nestled firmly between my legs, Thomas smiles … sweetly. “But … I haven’t finished my tour.”
With a grin that I feel all the way to my toes, I sweep a hand out toward the living room, now cloaked in darkness. I open my mouth to say, By all means, but something occurs to me just before he scoops me back up into his arms. “Wait!”
Thomas arches a brow as I twist away from him, reaching toward the center of the table until my fingertips graze the edge of the metal bowl. Then, with one final push, I press down, letting two-dozen wooden citrus fruits spill out. I turn back around to find Thomas with his eyes shut and head tilted back in laughter as the now-familiar clatter of wood hitting marble echoes all around us.
I drink in the sight of him poised between my bare legs—happy, shirtless, hard, real—and feel a smile bloom across my own face. “It’s like applause, only louder.”
Thomas lifts me up off the table—his hands cupping my ass as my legs wrap around his waist—and kisses me again. “I’ve never gotten applause for that before. I quite like it.”
I’m about to make a joke about psychologists and positive reinforcement when Thomas trips on a runaway lemon. I squeal and cling to his shoulders for dear life as he stumbles forward, catching his balance as we enter the darkness of the back hallway. We laugh in relief until Thomas claims my mouth again. With our heart rates elevated and his cock between my legs, our kiss becomes deeper, needier. We pass a door, but Thomas doesn’t bother to stop and tell me what room it is. Then another. Then another. His hands are guiding me up and down his length as his tongue does things that I recently experienced somewhere else.
Kicking the final door open wider, Thomas crosses the threshold with purpose before depositing me on the edge of a bed as big as my entire backyard. The last few rays of sunlight stream in through a wall of windows, illuminating every sparkly, shiny, reflective surface in the room. The beveled, mirrored headboard; the glass coffee table and framed art; the copper lamps and wall sconces; yet another crystal chandelier …
“Bedroom,” Thomas growls, pulling my shirt off over my head in one fluid motion. The deep vibration in his voice sends a shiver of anticipation through my body.
As Thomas reaches behind me to unclasp my bra, his situation is suddenly staring me in the face. Licking my lips, I grasp the waistband of his sweatpants and boxer briefs with both hands and slowly shimmy them down over his firm ass. His length falls forward, thick and heavy, and I’m overcome with the need to touch it. To taste it.
As I drag the flat of my tongue up and around his crown, my eyes flutter closed as I relish the whispered, “Fuck,” he releases in response to my touch.
My hands slide over his hard thighs and up the rolling ridges of his abdomen as I take him deeper. I’ve never been one of those girls who loves to suck a guy off. It always felt awkward to me and, if I’m being honest, kind of demeaning. But something about Thomas is different. Hell, everything about Thomas is different. I want to worship every square inch of his body and every dark corner of his mind. I want to feel him in every sense of the word. I want to tell him things with my touch that I can’t express to him any other way.
Things like, I’m in love with you.
And, I always have been.
Things like, I don’t want you to leave.
And, I wish I could have helped you.
As I wrap a hand around his velvety length, I feel as though another is being wrapped around my throat. I’m overcome with emotion as I begin to pump him faster, suck him harder.
Stay. Please stay. Please stay.
I’m sorry. I failed you. I’m sorry.
“Lou,” Thomas chokes out, threading a hand into my hair and gripping it tightly. “Lou, fuck, come here.”
Pulling me to stand, Thomas scoops me up, and once again, I’m in his arms with my legs around his waist, only this feels different too. Thomas’s heart is pounding against my bare breast. His face is buried in the crook of my neck. And his hands are clutching me to his body, like he’s afraid I’m the one who’s going to leave.
I feel the tip of him press against my entrance, penetrating me ever so slightly through the damp fabric of my satin thong, and an electric current of desire courses over my skin. Without questions or doubts or anything other than blind trust and blinding need, I slide my panties to the side, Thomas looks into my eyes, and together, we sink.
I press my forehead against his and dig my nails into the back of his neck as he fills me, inch by agonizing inch. Our breaths weave together, creating a ragged tapestry of understanding as we share a moment that feels bigger than any that have come before it. Bigger than this ridiculous apartment. Bigger than the ocean that separates our homes.
“I am so giving this tour five stars on Yelp tomorrow,” I whisper, earning me one of Thomas’s elusive silent laughs.
My heart is full to bursting when he presses that grinning mouth to mine again. I hold on tight as he turns around and sits on the edge of the bed, the motion causing him to fill me even deeper. I gasp around his tongue, and his hands begin to roam. He guides my hips up and down, setting the pace. He cups and caresses my full, needy breasts. And when he breaks our kiss to lavish my tender nipples with the same attention, when I look down at his beautiful face—eyelashes fanned out over chiseled cheekbones—and clutch it to my breast, I fall apart.
Thomas holds me tight as I whimper and pant and detonate around him. But he doesn’t let me fall back to earth. Instead, he grabs my hips and thrusts into me harder, prolonging my almost-painful ecstasy as he swells inside of me.
“Thomas …” It’s a desperate plea, one that I’ve uttered a thousand times in the throes of pleasure but one that has always fallen on deaf ears … until now. With those two syllables, the face I’ve stared at on the back of a book cover for so long crumples.
No longer steely or guarded or cold or calculating, Thomas’s features twist into a raw, soul-bearing expression of pleasure and pain. But as soon as I see it, it disappears from view as Thomas rolls me onto my back, buries that face in the crook of my neck, and surges into me with a desperation all his own. I catch him as he follows me over the edge, squeezing his taut, shuddering body with my thighs, my arms, my hands. Thomas’s fingers dig into my shoulders as he pours himself into me, his teeth graze my collarbone, and I know he’s found a taste of the madness he’s been chasing.
But all too soon, his muscles relax, his grip loosens, and I feel him returning to reality. I hold my breath as his eyelashes blink open against the side of my neck, wishing I could stop time. Three words sit on both of our tongues, but they’re not the same ones.
His will be, Good-bye, Dr. Sterling.
And mine will go with me to my grave.
Pressing up onto his forearms, Thomas plants a sweet, lingering kiss on my worried mouth before sliding the tip of his nose down the bridge of mine. “Stay the night,” he whispers, kissing me again.
All I can do is kiss him back and hope he tastes my answer.
Lou
MY EYES FLY OPEN in a panic as I register the sound of my alarm going off somewhere far, far away. They dart around the room, taking in my surroundings as the events of last night come crashing back into focus.
I’m on the floor, sandwiched between a fluffy white shag rug and the down comforter that Thomas must have yanked off the bed in the middle of the night. His chest rises and falls slowly beneath my cheek, and his body is hard and warm and perfectly entwined with mine. Blue flames dance along a strip of crystal rocks in the fireplace near our feet, and two still-full wineglasses sit on the hearth, where we abandoned them in favor of other activities.
The sky is dark beyond the wall of windows, but there is enough ambient light in the room that I can tell the sun is rising out there somewhere.
The sound of digital wind chimes in the distance stops, meaning that my cell phone alarm has given up on me and shut itself off.
As quickly and quietly as possible, I slip out from under Thomas’s arm and crawl over to my discarded bra and silky T-shirt. I leave my ruined panties on the floor and tiptoe out the door, clutching my clothes to my bare chest. The hardwood is cold under my feet. I didn’t notice yesterday, probably because Thomas carried me everywhere.
The thought makes me smile until I pass an open door that catches my attention. There is an office inside, sleek and modern. An L-shaped desk brackets another large window, and behind it stands a wall of floating glass shelves, dotted with creamy porcelain pottery and black-and-white photos of places where you can actually see the horizon.
A black laptop sits closed on the desk, and the sight erases the smile from my face. There are no empty coffee cups or wadded-up napkins lying around, no notebooks or chewed-up pen caps. The trash can is empty, and so is this room. Devoid of all life and activity.
Nothing is being created here.
I pad the rest of the way down the hall and into the main living area. Yellow lemons and bright green limes are the only pop of color in this otherwise cool, neutral cage—unless you count my plaid pants. I step over a few wooden fruits and snatch them up off the ground too.
I wriggle into my clothes in the kitchen while I wait for my coffee to brew. This place came equipped with a Keurig machine and a discreet basket full of those “little plastic cups that you drop in” that my stepdad hates so much. I open the cabinets until I find a nice, big mug to steal and stick it under the spout.
As I check my reflection in the microwave door, wiping mascara out from under my eyes and finger-combing my ratty hair, I notice a book on the counter behind me.
A very. Familiar. Book.
Guilt settles on my sternum like a cinder block as I turn and face the textbook. Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, the same exact edition as the one on my shelf, stares back.
“Morning, sunshine.”
Warm hands wrap around my waist from behind as Thomas leans down and plants a kiss on the curve of my neck. I freeze, both startled and shamed by his touch, before Thomas lazily pads to the other side of the kitchen.
I turn to face him, hiding the book behind my back, and am confronted with yet another thing to feel guilty about. Thomas’s hair is still tousled from my fingers. His eyelids are heavy, his features slack and sated. His sweatpants sit low on his shirtless torso, and his back—dotted with a dozen fading pink crescents from my fingernails—rises and falls at an unhurried pace as he fills a teakettle at the sink.
