Thwack, massage, kiss. I don’t know how many times he repeats those steps. At some point, I slip into a blissful trance, lost in some floaty place where there’s only him and me and the harmony of our breaths.
This is what it’s supposed to feel like when two people come together, willingly, wantonly. What would sex be like with him? I can’t even fathom it. The emotional connection alone might explode my brain.
He covers my heated backside in caresses and kisses, kindling such a big feeling inside me. The swollen throb between my legs rallies and flares, energizing my nerve-endings and expanding into parts of my body I didn’t know existed. Something’s coming, something wonderful, but before the sensation reaches a breaking point, he steps back to swing again.
Over and over, he brings me closer to the edge, burning me hotter with need, and teasing me one stroke at a time.
When the hot lashes and affectionate touches stop completely, I moan into the quilt. “You’re done?”
His groaning laughter follows him around the bed where he bends to release the cuffs. I’m too limp and weightless to move. But my pussy pulsates with emptiness, clenching and soaked beyond embarrassment.
I don’t care. I need…need… “Please.”
Climbing onto the bed, he rolls me to my back and straddles my hips. His erection is right there, trying to stab a hole through his pants. But he doesn’t free it or look at it.
He weighs enough to crush me, but his quads contract at my sides, bearing his bulk. His gaze lowers to my button-up, and he grips the collar, ripping it open. My nicest blouse. But the look on his face makes me forget why I care.
His lips separate with the force of his breaths, and his eyes drift over me like a vast ocean, heavy and deep, drowning me in wonder.
Men have sat on me like this before, but only during a struggle when my arms are swinging and my hips are bucking. No one has ever straddled me in such a vulnerable position without thrusting and taking. With his pants still on.
He takes in the white satin of my mom’s bra, the material too small to fully cover my chest. With a groan, he tugs the cups beneath my breasts, exposing them. “If you knew how many times I’ve imagined these the past couple months, what they would feel like, taste like, how they would look trussed up in rope…”
“I’ve imagined you, too.” I lift my hand to reach for the hard length straining his slacks.
He catches my wrist and lunges forward, his chest on mine and his voice guttural. “If you touch me, it’s all over. I’m barely hanging on.”
Part of me wants to see what he looks like when he lets go. But I’d rather give in to my curiosity about where he’s taking this and let him lead.
With a shaky hand, he traces the outer edge of my breast. His other hand tangles in my hair as he leans in and tastes my lips.
I love the cinnamon flavor of his tongue. It’s so unique to him, just one of the thousand things that separates him from all the others. When I’m with him, the bruises inside me tuck themselves away. Or maybe they fade. I can’t feel them or the fear they ignite. Why? Because he’s viciously protective? Because he’s achingly tender even when he’s punishing me?
He’s a deep well of discovery, and I hope he gives me the time and permission to learn everything about him.
He slides off my hips to lie against my side, facing me. The hand in my hair clenches tighter, and his lips stay with mine, each bite and roll of his tongue delivering an electric shudder up my spine.
His free hand travels down my throat, trails a path between my breasts, over my stomach, and dives between my legs. I gasp against his mouth, my fingers grasping at his shoulder.
The placement of his thumb stuns me, and my clit throbs against the diabolical pressure he rubs against it. He sinks one then two fingers inside me, and I writhe against his hand, my skin hot and exposed beneath his gaze.
I must look ridiculous with my skirt bunched around my waist, and my too-small bra shoved beneath my boobs. But he doesn’t seem to care.
He steals glances at my bared breasts, even as his mouth feasts on my lips. I despise my chest, but I love how he stares at me like he appreciates what he sees, like he’s never wanted another woman the way he wants me. My body pleases him. I please him.
The length of his frame trembles against mine, all sharp edges and contracting muscles. I don’t know when he slipped off his shoes, but his socked feet brush against my toes. The shirt and slacks he’s still wearing doesn’t diminish the heat seeping from him. His intensity smothers me, and his gravely noises shiver my skin. He’s a starving, growly man in need, and I want to feed him.