His lips parted. “Jetty?”
Hands trembling, I reached for him, my fingers closing around the fabric of his shirt. I drew him toward me, down onto the couch.
Before I had a chance to overthink anything, I swung my leg across his lap and straddled him.
“Kiss me again,” I whispered.
I tipped my face and wetted my mouth...and waited.
Chapter Ten
Mason stared at me, unblinking, then cradled my face in his big, warm hands. He pressed his lips to mine. This wasn’t a chaste kiss, like the one he’d initiated in my bedroom. This was slow and deliberate sensory overload.
I melted, letting the robe fall from my arms to pool around my hips.
Tension wound tighter and tighter between my legs. I touched his chest; his heart was rioting like a caged animal. I shivered and he must’ve felt it because within seconds his hands were on me, dispersing their warmth across my goose-prickled skin. Like his kiss, his touch was measured yet adamant, as though he feared he’d hurt me if he pressed too hard.
“I can’t believe you’re really here.” He held my waist, then slid his palms to the small of my back.
I whimpered against his mouth. “Believe it.”
He pulled me close, trailing kisses along my jaw. His stubble tickled my cheek and I laughed. I pushed my breasts against him, and the rumble in his chest rattled my body like a small seismic shift. He drew back to look at me.
“I want you, Jett. I know it’s fucked up but no matter how hard I try, I can’t get the thought of you touching yourself out of my head. But you have to tell me what you want.”
I closed my eyes as he stroked my arms, his touch feather-light. In that moment there was no question in my mind—or in my body.
“I want this,” I said. “I want you.”
He kissed me, sliding his hands beneath the robe to grip my backside. I rocked against him, gasping when I felt the bulge of his erection against my inner thigh. The man who’d helped raise me was hard and there was no mistaking the cause. It was me.
“My God, how are you so beautiful?” he whispered between kisses. “And soft. You’re so fucking soft.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smiled like this, my top and bottom teeth bared, eyelids pinched, blurred vision.
Mason’s tongue skimmed my bottom lip, a clear signal that he wanted to taste me. I offered my mouth and he delved inside, drawing a moan from deep in my throat. His tongue was warm and tasted of spearmint and black tea. I followed his lead, mimicking each nip and lick. This wasn’t my first French kiss, but I was dreadfully out of practice.
He tugged his shirt off in one fluid motion and pulled me flush against him, flooding my chest and belly with heat, as his cock continued to demand attention—despite the confines of his pants. I wanted to see it, to hold it in my hands, but I couldn’t make myself reach for it. What if I stroked too hard or not hard enough? There’d be no hiding my inexperience.
I groaned softly as he palmed my breasts, his thumbs raking over my nipples. Greedily, he took a puckered tip into his warm, wet mouth.
“Your nipples are luscious,” he said. “I can’t wait to taste every inch of you.”
I moaned and clenched my inner muscles at the thought of him putting his mouth on other places, especially my clit. He pushed my breasts together, gliding his tongue back and forth over my nipples.
My fingers twitched, restless. I weaved them into his hair. Mason was making me feel amazing, but what the hell was I doing for him? His cock was there, begging to be touched, and I was too damn scared to do anything about it.
His gaze caught mine. “You okay?”
I nodded. “I’m fine.”
“Just fine?”
I kissed him so he couldn’t look at me.
“More than fine,” I whispered.
Goddamn, those hands. They were everywhere—gliding up my back, down my chest, over my breasts and belly, between my legs. His fingers grazed my folds and I shivered, whimpering around our tongues, unable to keep my hips from rocking. He pressed the heel of his hand against me, putting pressure on my clit. His palm fit my mound like they’d been made for each other, like he’d sculpted me from clay to be his perfect match. I gave myself over to it, to him. I was his, and my heart swelled with gratitude for the fact that he seemed to want me every bit as much.