Page 45 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Forty-Four

HOLLY

“Good fucking god, my love…” Cyrus’s broken, musky tone penetrates my ears.

His glare burns over me, igniting my heart with adornment.

I’m standing by the door of the bedroom, waiting patiently for his sentence to continue, but it doesn’t.

And the more his eyes rake over me, the more dazed he becomes.

Mesmerized, even.

Like he’s forgetting how to breathe.

Quite frankly, I feel that way too. He looks gorgeous.

I don’t know whether I want to knock him to the ground and sit on his face or kiss him until he’s blue.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen him scrubbed up in a suit many times, but there’s something about this one that seems different. Like he’s wearing it just for me.

“You look…” he continues, then stops again. If you don’t speak a full sentence soon, you’ll end up drooling on your nice shoes , I think to myself as he wets his lips for the umpteenth time, something I love watching him do.

He looks beyond remarkable, sporting a cream, almost beige suit with a matching vest, polar white shirt and a tie ironically the same color of my dress. He has trimmed his stubble, slicked back his hair, and whatever scent that is wafting from his direction is intoxicating.

“Do you like it?” I prompt, fluffing down over the mesh-like texture of my dress.

It’s crafted from satin, with a shimmery, golden tulle overlay.

The reason I chose this dress was because the corset’s design pinches tight into my waist, flowing down into a seamless A-line shape, with a decadent slit down my right leg—complimenting my figure to its fullest. And of all the colors in the world, I chose this one.

A deep, cherry red. It’s a color that I do not usually tend to go for in clothing, but I needed something that shows an emotion inside of me. Loudly.

Love.

Eternal love.

Like the blood in my veins that pumps for the man before me, red was mandatory for him.

“Holly, I…” He rubs the nape of his neck, breathing out heavily, but not in a sexual way. “I— I truly have no words.”

“Hmm, aren’t you a best selling author?” I joke in an attempt to push aside the amount of thick lust and heat in the air. We need to release that before going downstairs . It was bad enough Izzy—Bella could see right though us. “You should have an entire thesaurus up in that ticker of yours,”

“I did. Until I met you. Now it’s just mush… all floof up here,” he smiles, tapping his temple with a laugh.

“Touché, Mr. Stone. Touché.”

“You are so fucking beautiful, my sweet angel. Though, beautiful is hardly a word strong enough to describe what I’m looking at. Got any synonyms for me?” He steps closer, his fragrance wafting through the air and straight into my brain.

Holy shit. Not helping.

“Hmm. How about, a bit of alright? Stunner? A total babe?”

“I guess they work. I would have taken something like gorgeous, exquisite, or ravishing, though.” He rolls the r in his words, stepping another foot nearer. He’s resisting just as much as I am, because we both know that as soon as we’re inches from each other we’re doomed.

I giggle, unable to control my flustered thoughts around him. “Thank you. You scrub up alright yourself. A little too good, actually. What if the ladies steal you from me? I can’t fight them all.”

“I’m flattered. But that would be impossible. No one can take me from you. I’m yours, Holly. Every single particle of flesh on my body and what lies underneath it is yours.”

“Likewise,” I whisper the word, looking up at him now that his hands are wrapped around my waist. “Can you do me up?”

His fingers trail from the small of my back, across my hip, then over my belly as he stalks a slow circle around me, stopping behind me. “We’re running late, by the way,” I mention as he slowly… hesitantly… threads the strings, tightening the bodice of my lace-up gown.

“I know. But going down there means that I have to stop looking at you?—”

“As if you’re about to tear my clothes to shreds and have your way with me?” I cut him off.

“You took the words out of my mouth. Plus I won’t be able to do this…

” he spins me back around to face him, then bands his arms around me, then kisses me until I feel it right to my core.

Breaking contact, he gestures his fingers in a rotating pattern.

“Better give me a twirl before we go. I want to admire my handywork,” he says.

I shouldn’t be shocked with how well he pulled it off: styling my hair this way.

Not even I could do it, but he is a craftsman, after all.

After our shower, Cyrus got to work on my hair for tonight’s Gala.

He made neat, loose curls, displaying the variances of contrast in my hair.

The sides are fixed to the crown of my head with a diamante hair pin, but a small section of fringe remains, dangling at the side of my face.

I do what he says, spinning in a perfect circle with a beaming smile across my face. “Are you sure it’s my hair that you’re looking at?”

“Your ass does look impeccable in that dress, and now all I want is you out of it. But something is missing…” The sinister glint in his eyes chokes me for a split second. Then, suddenly I’m slammed against him, my back flat against his chest and his hand around my throat. “Those cheeks…”

“What’s wrong with them?” I squeak between bated breaths. I love the feeling of this oxygen deprivation his book mentioned, and he knows it now, too. He knows exactly what he’s doing to my downstairs region and it has me very much forgetting about this Gala we’re already late for.

He twists a bunch of the fabric in his hand. “I don’t think they have enough blush on them to match your pretty red dress.” The heat of his words against the delicate skin on my neck, and his free hand creeping under the slit of my dress almost sends me into climax here and now.

“I can go get?—”

I draw in a gasp, my chest expanding to maximum capacity at the sudden intrusion of his finger gliding into my core…

which of course is once more wet and desperate for his attention.

He seems surprised that I chose not to wear anything underneath my dress, given the deep, erotic groan he’s just made.

What better way to make a man wild when he can’t have you than by ditching the knickers?

“What was that you were going to say?” he teases, pushing in another finger. My blush palette , I want to say, but the words don’t form, instead a relentless moan takes charge of my vocals. “Thought so.”

Undoubtedly, my cheeks run red hot under his needy actions, and I know it’s only moments before I cum all over his hand. “Cyrus…” It’s more of a beg than a statement, unclear if it’s because?—

Option one: I want him to stop so that I don’t look like a dehydrated, horny prune at the gathering.

Option two: I don’t want him to stop because I’m clinging on the edge and desperate for an orgasm.

His fingers continue to torment me relentlessly, and at this point I’m in complete denial, choking down the climax that he knows I can’t hold back.

If I cum now, I’m going to wear the visible signs of it.

We can’t risk it. But alas, there’s something about that thought that just makes it that much hotter.

“Yes, angel?”

Option two…

I choose option two!

And just like that as if he knew my internal thoughts, I shatter into a million pieces at his mercy. I let my bodyweight relax against his chest as I pulsate around his fingers, unsure if I’ve actually gone blind or I’m seeing stars.

When I come back to the here and now, I see Cyrus has shifted, wiping my gloss from his fingers into the matching handkerchief to his tie that was in his coat pocket. “Turn around,” he demands, and I follow instantly assuming that he’s going to readjust my dress.

But I’m barely given a single second before I’m needing to hold on to something— anything , as my legs are spread, my dress pulled up, and his solid length is filling me from behind.

I reach out, shoving the dining chair aside to hold onto the table, bending over for him.

Each thrust is sharp, heavy and deep, but I can handle it.

The ache is worth every hit to the hilt, because it’s a reminder that I am his .

Cyrus’s hand doesn’t move from my throat while his other explores my now very swollen clit. “Oh, fuck!” I practically scream the words when he hits a spot that makes my knees buckle. The pressure at my core builds quickly and I rocket launch into another climax.

I relish the way he comes apart for me, allowing him to collapse gently on my back until he catches his breath. Both of us seemingly as dazed and confused when we’re both able to focus. He watches me trying to absorb what in the hell just happened, seemingly satisfied with his work.

“Absolute perfection. Shall we?” he asks, casually smoothing my dress back down and holding his arm out for me… as if he didn’t just fuck the absolute shit out of me . Once again, I have no words other than a sheepish smirk, and the sensation of my skin feeling like it’s about to melt off my bones.

He holds the door open for me like the true gentlemen he is, and I can hear the music from downstairs, gently flowing up the corridor.

I take a breath in, as if it’ll help me draw the courage I now need to—pardon the pun— face the music , and head out.

Piano notes drift softly, soothing my nerves, but only by a pinch.

He follows behind, not too close so that it’s obvious we’re together , but not too far that he loses sight of me.

Crap.

They’re all looking.

They’re all looking!

Act like an employee.

Act like an employee dammit, Holly , I repeat the pathetic words knowing damn bloody well that I look like I’ve been fucked seven ways to Sunday, and hoping that everyone here is too drunk to notice.