‘So you can follow instructions...’ I hear the hint of bemusement in his desire-laden voice, wrapped up in that intoxicating approval, and I bite back the retort I want to give. When you’re the youngest of five, being told what to do is a life hazard and I hate it. Hate it. It brings out my rebellious streak and if he’s not careful—I’m not careful—it will out and this...whatever this is...will be over. Just as he warned.
He cups one breast, his palm hot and soothing to the intense ache beneath, then his thumb rolls over my nipple and I whimper, fighting the need to move, to beg.
He repeats the caress, again and again, each time the shot of pleasure ups and the battle to remain still intensifies, the mix taking me higher and higher and—he tweaks the sensitised nub, a sudden pinch between his thumb and forefinger, and my body thrashes, my clit pulses.
‘Jackson!’
He stops and his hand falls away.
‘What did I say?’
I shake my head at him, heaving in a breath. He can’t be serious. How can I...? As I look up into his dark, oppressive gaze I quit the mental ramble and realise the battle I have already lost. I wet my lips and soften my voice, all acquiescing and hopeful. ‘Sorry, I’ll do better.’
It pleases him; the approval is back in his eyes, and, God, does it please me in turn. It shouldn’t, it really shouldn’t; I’m my own woman, I do what I want. But the squirming heat low in my abdomen tells me otherwise.
‘Maybe I should take pity on you.’
I want to tell him yes, I want to nod, but I’m still too stunned by this turnaround in what makes me tick that I rely on my eyes to do it all and as if he can read them he lowers his hand to the back of my thigh, his palm smoothing upwards, cupping my bare arse, stroking, squeezing.
‘I’ve often wondered what you’d feel like. The curve of your arse has teased me one too many times, Caitlin.’
I want to scold him again for not telling me before, for making me wait for this, but I’m obedient, docile...eager to hear what else he might say.
‘Your cheeks are so perfect, so small and round, the perfect shape and size to fill my palm.’
They do, as he squeezes. I feel his fingers delve between them, a second’s brush against my puckered opening that has my body wanting to gyrate.
‘I could feel you like this, explore you like this for ever.’
For ever. Oh, yes.
He sweeps around to my front, his fingers curving around my thigh, his thumb brushing over my dampened curls, the briefest touch. I bite into my lip harder and
tense my body head to toe—Do not move. Do not end this.
He rewards me with a deeper sweep, a deeper caress that teases at my swollen clit—yes.
‘Tell me, do you want to move?’
‘Yes.’ It comes out strained, needy, desperate, and he grins, his thumb probing and making my nostrils flare, my eyes widen, but I stop my body from bucking just in time.
‘Do you want to come?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you wet for me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s find out how wet.’
I don’t speak. I swallow. I force down the lump of desire that’s wedged my throat closed, and then he rotates his hand, slipping it between my legs. His fingers are hot and teasing as they dip inside me and my pussy clenches around him, desperate to keep him.
He drags in another ragged breath, withdraws his fingers and raises them between us. He eyes them in the moonlight, all slick with my need. And then he licks them, fucking licks them, slow, unhurried. He lets out a hum—no, a growl—of appreciation and the heat inside me flares.
‘You taste so good, Cait,’ he murmurs. ‘So fucking good.’
‘Wanna share?’