Page 16

He lets go. The first bright notes come out of the base, and the horses start to rise and fall beside me, "The Skaters' Waltz" filling the dark shop. Arch slides his hands up the insides of my thighs, pulls me to the very edge of the counter, and puts his mouth on me.

My whole body jolts.

He licks me once, slow, from the bottom all the way to the top, and when his tongue reaches my clit, I cry out. It echoes off the tin ceiling. I clap a hand over my mouth, and he pulls back an inch.

"Don't," he says. "Nobody's here. Let me hear you."

He takes my wrist and puts my hand in his hair instead. Then he goes back to work.

I didn't know. I had no idea. I thought I knew roughly what this would feel like, from books and what I’d looked up online, but I was wrong about all of it.

His tongue is soft and firm and patient. He circles my clit, then flattens his tongue and licks slow, then flicks the tip of it fast until my hips buck off the counter. His beard scrapes the insides of my thighs. His hands hold my legs open, wide, and he groans against me as though I'm the one doing something to him.

"So wet for me," he says against my skin. "God, sweetheart. So sweet."

The horses go around and around at my elbow. The waltz turns. I'm panting. I'm pulling his hair, I think too hard, but he only groans again and sucks my clit between his lips, and every muscle in my body draws tight.

"Arch. Arch, I⁠—"

"I've got you. Let go."

He slides one thick finger inside me.

It's a stretch, a strange full pressure, and I tense. He goes still. He waits, his mouth soft on me, until I breathe out. Then he curls his finger forward, slowly, and presses against a spot inside me I didn't know was there, and his tongue circles my clit at the same time.

I break apart.

It rolls through me hard, wave after wave, my thighs shaking against his shoulders and my back bowed off the counter. I hear myself say his name, and then I can't say anything at all. He doesn't stop. He stays with me, gentle now, licking me through it while I pulse around his finger, until I'm trembling and gasping and so sensitive that I push weakly at his head.

He lifts his head. His mouth is wet. His eyes are almost black.

Beside me, the carousel turns one last slow half-circle and stops.

The shop goes quiet except for my breathing.

"It stopped," I say. My voice is wrecked.

"I know."

"You wound it so I could—while you⁠—"

"I wanted it playing the first time you came for me." He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee. "Now every time I hear that song, I'll think of this."

I laugh. It comes out shaky and surprised, and I put my hand over my face. My whole body is buzzing. My legs feel weak. I'm naked on a wrap counter, and I don't care, and I can't remember the last time I didn't care about something.

He stands up off the stool. He's still fully dressed, flannel and jeans and the silver chain at his collar, and the front of his jeans is straining, impossible to miss. I look at it. I can't help looking.

I reach for his belt.

He catches my hand. Kisses my knuckles. "Sweetheart. We can go upstairs."

"No."

"There's a bed up there."

"I've slept on four couches in two months. I don't care about a bed." I tug my hand free and hook my fingers through his belt loop. "You wound it down here. I want it down here."

He goes very still. Then he drops his hands to his sides.