When they arrived at his Barbican flat, Milan’s first move was to head for the fridge and remove the bottle of champagne.
“Milan.” Lydia hated the plaintive note of her voice. Was this how it had to be? Her as the joyless voice of moderation, him as her surrogate pupil or child? No, thanks. She wasn’t responsible for him—it was true.
“What?” The cork popped and he ran around the kitchen, bottle in hand, looking for glasses. “I don’t get to celebrate?”
She decided to try a different tack.
“There’s more than one way to celebrate.”
He turned from the cabinet to raise an eyebrow at her. His lips curved into a slow smile.
“I’m sorry, milácku. I haven’t been the best lover lately. But all that can change. Let’s take this to bed.”
She shrugged off her denim jacket and slung it over a chair before advancing slowly, hand on hip, towards him.
“Put that down,” she said softly, placing a finger on his cheek.
He put the bottle on the floor and slid his hands down her back, bringing them to rest on her bottom in its thin cotton chinos.
“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.
She opened her palm and let it travel along his jawbone and beneath his chin, settling on his elegant, curved neck, fingers crooking around and pressing into his nape.
“Why would I want to taste champagne when I can taste you?” she said.
He bent his forehead to touch hers.
“This is good counselling,” he said, then he caught her in a kiss, brandy-scented and spicy, yet also warm and sweet.
He pulled her tightly into him and the glasses juddered in the cabinet behind while they tried to make handprints on every part of each other. She hurled herself into the kiss, putting every reserve of energy into the clash of tongues, wanting to show him how deeply, how fully she cared for him.
The sound of shuddering crystal and gasping and sighing was all that could be heard in the room for a long time, then, once the lump pushing into her stomach was hard as hard could be, she broke off and made a slow descent to her knees.
He exhaled reverently when she unbuckled his belt and loosened his trousers, easing them down over his thighs and down to his ankles.
She kissed her way back up his long legs, then lowered the boxers over his cock, which was upright in readiness, just waiting for her to do what she wanted with it.
She darted her tongue over his sac, causing him to squirm delightfully, his hips shivering in her hands.
“Oh, you…” he whispered.
She nuzzled his crotch, nipping at his tender inner thighs, breathing warm air all over him until he was teased beyond endurance and he put his hand in her hair and pulled.
“Do you want me to suck your cock?” she asked, looking up brazenly.
“You little fucking minx.” She loved the glow of lustful mischief in his eyes, the look she hadn’t seen for a while now. It made her heart swell and her hopes enlarge. “You know it.”
“I’m going to drink you down,” she promised him. “I’m going to swallow it all.”
She enveloped him in her mouth and attempted to keep her word to the best of her ability, sucking and licking that smooth, sleek shaft until her jaw ached, but, just as she felt the end approach, he yanked her off by her hair and pushed her, panting hard, to the kitchen floor.
He had her trousers off in seconds and pushed her knickers aside before entering her with one hard thrust. The tiles were unforgiving against her spine, but nothing could spoil her primal, selfish joy at having him inside her. It felt like a victory and she clenched him tight, grunting and urging him onward.
He fucked her sincerely and without quarter, on his elbows on the kitchen floor. His hair whipped over her face and he tried to protect her back from the worst effects of the granite slabs by sliding an arm beneath her.
All the same, the bumping and jolting was fierce and intense and Lydia was relieved when her orgasm unleashed itself, blanking out all other sensations.
He poured into her on the kitchen floor, covering her, filling her.