Wrapping his hand around my neck, he brought me closer to him. "Don't you dare kiss me," I told him. I wasn't ready for it. Not yet. But soon. Maybe once my head was out of the clouds and my heart could handle it.

"Okay," he agreed. Then leaned in close and brushed my lips with his.

"What are you doing?" I whispered against them. I didn't pull back. I let my heart control my head, which made my actions confusing.

"Not kissing you," he confirmed. He moved his lips away from mine, trailed them up my jaw and to my ear. He nibbled gently, just underneath it. Then his lips parted and his tongue darted out, as he moved down my neck, so fucking slowly. He paused on my shoulder, moving the strap of my dress to the side, and his teeth skimmed along my skin.

My hands flattened on his stomach. I could feel the dips of his muscles. "You said you wouldn't kiss me," I breathed out.

"I'm not." His mouth never left my shoulder.

"So what are you doing?" My voice was strained. My breathing was heavy. I squeezed my legs together.

He pulled away and looked into my eyes. "Remembering you."

My head flung back and hit the wall behind me. I heard him moan from deep in his throat, just before I felt his mouth on my neck, his tongue flicking slowly, gently against my throat. "Oh my God." I sighed. My hands moved lower on him. I couldn't control them, even if I’d tried. They passed the band of his shorts and brushed against his hard-on.

He groaned into my neck, vibrating my skin. I felt it all the way in my core.

My body felt like it was on fire, ready to combust. He removed the other strap from my shoulder and licked and sucked there, right before his hand gripped the side of my chest. His thumb skimmed across my already strained nipple. He placed his knee between my legs and separated them. It was too much. Too many things happening at once. His thumb on my nipple, his mouth on my skin, and his legs between mine—I couldn't take much more.

He pulled away abruptly, and I almost felt grateful. But he just looked at me; his eyes were the darkest I'd ever seen them. They seemed to widen slightly, like something had just dawned on him.

"Fuck," he spat through clenched teeth. I could feel the material of my dress shifting against my breasts with each breath. His eyes zoned in on my chest. In a flash, he'd removed the straps from my arms and was standing there, studying me, as if wondering what to do next. He smirked slightly. His next action had been decided. And then he did it. He yanked my dress down, just enough so that my breasts were free. His breathing was so heavy, so short. He was panting. He rubbed his hand against his dick, just once. But the image of it was enough to drive me insane.

Then his hands held mine, pulling them away from him and raising them above my head. His mouth was still on my neck, licking, sucking. I felt him everywhere. He shifted my hands until they gripped the bar above me. "Keep them there."

And then he moved.

The instant his mouth covered my nipple, my grip on the bar tightened. I cried out in pleasure. But it wasn't enough, not for him. He spread my legs—with his hand this time. I felt his fingers skim my folds through my panties. I could've come. If I wasn't so embarrassed about how wet I was—I would have.

He switched breasts, making sure they both got the same attention. My arms were still raised, gripped tight against the cold metal. Somehow, without me realizing, my hips were moving. His hand on me, moving ever so slightly, just enough that my clit could feel the friction of his palm.

Then his tongue on my breast stopped moving. I thought we were done. But he sucked on it.

Hard.

I was too consumed with the pleasure of his mouth that I didn't even know how or when it happened. I felt the cold air on my wet sex and my panties around my ankles. He started on the outside, fingering and spreading my wetness, making circles around my nub. One finger slid in and out, replaced my two. He started moving them, slowly.

I got lost in the fog of his actions. I wanted to touch him. I wanted him to feel as good as I felt. "You're so fucking wet." He watched my face as his flattened tongue moved from one nipple to the other.

"I want to touch you," I told him.

"No."

"Please," I begged.

His fingers moved faster, harder, more determined. I felt myself building. I wanted to hold out. It was too soon. I wanted to feel this intensity longer. I'd started thrusting into his hand. It'd only been seconds, not even minutes. There was no slow build-up, no warning. His fingers, his mouth—all of him—were so determined to make me feel. To make me want. To make me his.

And I was. Whether he was around to know it or feel it.

I was always his.

Three years ago to the day—on our very first date—I became his.

His fingers took up a rhythm. He knew I was close. "Baby," he murmured. My legs squeezed tight around his hand and-

"Oh my God," I moaned. I repeated the words over and over as his movements slowed and my vision cleared. When my breathing settled I opened my eyes, just as he reached into his shorts to adjust himself. I went weak at the knees. I let go of the bar and slid down the wall until my ass hit the floor. "Holy shit." My body was still trembling with the aftermath of the most intense orgasm I'd ever had. My head felt heavy, so heavy. I could barely lift it to see his reaction. He smirked, right before he walked out of the tiny space in the closet. A second later, I heard the stream of water turn on from a shower.

16