Love in London by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Eighteen

Oz

I run my hands over Gabby’s back, feeling a bit of frustration. There’s just so much fabric in the way. Too much. The dress she’s wearing today is pretty if a little plain – it definitely doesn’t stand up next to the clothes I bought her earlier.

But the main problem I have with it is that it’s on her. Covering her. Stopping my hands from making contact with her skin.

“You know,” I say, my voice low and intimate given how close we are together. I nip at the back of her neck with my lips, making her shudder. “It would be easier to massage you if I could get my hands on your skin.”

“Then,” Gabby says, and I swear my mouth almost waters in anticipation. “Why don’t you put your hands on my skin?”

It takes only a moment for those words to sink in with their full deliciousness, and then I’m tugging at her lightly.

“Sit up,” I say, the words coming out a growl, so eager to have her in front of me. She sits, but the fabric of her dress is still caught under her; she must understand because she gets to her feet with her back to me. I stand, and now there’s barely anything between us, only the smallest breath of air and the fabric of that damn dress.

I reach for her shoulders, running my hands and thumbs over them again while she stands in front of me. The straps of her dress sit on those shoulders, and I skim my fingers under them to slip them down, down, over her arms. Even just the sight of her bare neck is enough to turn me on, especially knowing what comes next. I kiss and nuzzle her skin, the massage almost just a pretense now, an excuse to get my hands on her.

And by the way, her muscles loosen under my touch right anyway, turning to jelly, I don’t think she’s going to complain.

I slide my hands down, letting the straps drop completely from her shoulders. The dress stays up on its own, buoyed by resistance, and balanced on her chest until I grasp the zip at the back and pull it slowly down. It unpeels from her like the skin of an orange, then drops to the floor when I let go, pooling perfectly around her feet.

She gasps lightly as it drops, and I begin to sweep my hand’s palm down across her back, gently massaging each muscle I can find. I lean down to kiss the back of her neck and across her shoulders, and she allows me without resistance, standing still and only gasping and shivering in response to my touches. I’m finely tuned to her, interpreting every motion, every sound, memorizing them. Understanding which parts of her skin are the most sensitive, which will make her cry out, which will make her turn to liquid in my hands.

I work my way along her arms one at a time, kissing her skin, raising goosebumps as my fingers ghost across, finding those sensitive muscle points, and massaging them just so until she gasps and moans. Then down, over her back again, my hands skimming over her sides and around her front to touch her stomach, to glide, to worship every inch of her as my mouth continues its work along her sensitive neck and behind her ears.

Her blonde hair tickles my chest as she sways lightly on her feet, my hands on her front holding her close to me. I realize I’m wearing too many clothes still and strip off my shirt to feel her skin properly, to feel all of her against me. Her skin is hot against mine, and when I lift my hands to glide over the cups of her bra I feel the shudder of desire that moves through her body at the contact.

She leans into me, but I pull away just for one moment to reach for the clasp of her bra and unhook it, letting the fabric fall loose. I repeat the same motion as before with the dress, sliding the straps over her shoulders and down, until the whole thing drops to the ground and leaves her unveiled. I don’t turn her round to look at her, not just yet. I look to the side, to the windows, where I can just make out our reflection. Her breasts stand proudly, pert and waiting, and when I finally set my hands on them we both exhale at the same time in satisfaction.

I keep it light and gentle for now, weighing them in my hands, placing my palms over them to measure how they spill over my fingers. I brush against her nipples, nothing more – no pinching or teasing, not just yet. Just a gentle brush of my fingers and then my palms that, nonetheless, make her arch her back into me and sigh up at the ceiling, like the sound of something coming home for her.

She lets me touch her, move her, strip her down without interruption. She lets me take control. My dick is straining at my pants, aching to be let free. I undo my belt and step out of them and still, she doesn’t move, doesn’t turn. I look up and catch her watching my reflection the same way I watched her, and lean down to kiss her neck with a new passion.

Now there is so little fabric between us, so little to get in the way. But I won’t give in to my urges just yet. I won’t cut off this pleasure, this slow and gentle exploration of her. I drop to my knees behind her, then take hold of her hips to spin her around so she faces me in only her panties.

For a moment, she’s shy again, her hands rushing to cover her breasts. But then she looks at me, at the way I look back at her, and I know she sees nothing but utter worship in my eyes. She drops her hands slowly, letting them hang at her sides, letting me admire her. And I do.

I drop my head, kiss, and nuzzle against her stomach and then lower, breathing in the scent of her. Heady and intoxicating. I may have been here before, but not like this, the dimness of the closet hid her from me more than I would have liked, and there was the rush of the moment, the urgency. I breathe her in now and run my hands up and down her legs, her thighs, massaging and soothing and letting my kisses trail after my fingers.

Finally, I straighten again where I kneel, pushing my fingers under the hem of her panties and sliding them down slowly, so slow. When she gasps I look up to see her eyes closed with anticipation.

I run my hands up over her bare ass, cupping it, kissing the side of her hip bone, her bikini line, down until I taste her.

Then I look up at her, and the only thing I can do is get to my feet.

“I can’t hold off any longer,” I growl, between kisses as I devour and claim her mouth. “Bedroom. Now.”