Mason dipped two fingers between my folds and spread my own moisture over my clit, drawing circles that made my calves and other, more intimate areas, spasm. My nails etched into his shoulders, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. His erection continued to prod my thigh, a reminder of all the things I should’ve been doing to him.
“I want...” I whined softly. “I can’t...”
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
Hearing him call me sweetheart made my eyes burn with unshed tears. “I want to touch you.”
“You are touching me.”
“But...” I leaned my head on his shoulder, my thoughts coming at me in illicit pictures rather than words. “I want...more.”
He smoothed my hair as a tender smile touched his lips.
“Where do you want to touch me, Jetty?”
I wanted to touch him where he’d touched me and everywhere else, to memorize the constellation of freckles on his chest and back. I wanted to know him better than he knew himself, to taste his elbows and the backs of his knees.
He placed my hands on either side of his face.
“Start here.”
His fingers returned to my clit. Meanwhile, I made it my mission to learn more about this man I used to know so well.
I skimmed his cheekbones and brows, traced the edge of his jaw. I licked the pulse points below his ears, and kissed his collar bones, the hollow of his throat, his tight, tan nipples. I mapped him, this artist who had helped craft me, raking my fingernails down his chest and outlining the veins along his arm with my tongue.
Everything I wanted to do to him, I did.
Finally, I reached his belt buckle. With feigned confidence, I freed the leather strap from its metal enclosure and unfastened his jeans.
He sucked in a breath as I pulled at the front of his boxers, granting me access to all of him. I encircled his cock with all five of my fingers, my hand warmed by the blood-hot burn of his skin.
Mason watched intently, his eyes crescent moons, as I slid my fist along his length the way I’d watched him do it. Touching a cock, holding it firmly, was new to me. I couldn’t believe how hard and soft it was. Such silkiness, on top of all that pressure.
After a few test strokes, Mason sighed and angled his pelvis toward me. I wrapped both hands around him, one above the other, and stroked down. He inhaled sharply.
“Was that good or bad?” I asked.
He chuckled breathlessly. “That was very good, sweetheart.”
A smile consumed my face. He cupped my pussy with his whole hand—a simple gesture that made me feel cared for, comforted. He showed me how to round the head of his cock with every pass, how tight to squeeze the shaft without hurting him. I studied his reactions and adjusted my technique accordingly, captivated by how good I could make him feel using just my hands.
A cry bubbled up from my chest as he pushed two fingers inside me. I winced. The pain was brief, but sharp and unexpected.
“Did I hurt you?”
“A little,” I said.
He stilled his hand and looked at me—really looked at me. “Jett, have you done anything like this before?”
Was my lack of experience that obvious? I shook my head, letting my hair fall over my face.
How was it possible to feel both eight and eighteen in the exact same moment?
Mason sighed and pressed his forehead to mine. “I wish you’d told me. I would’ve gone slower.”
But I didn’t want to slow down. Slowing down meant thinking, and thinking meant overthinking. Second-guessing. “Does this mean we have to stop?”
He planted a kiss between my eyebrows. I bristled at the tenderness in his touch, afraid he’d gone back to seeing me as just his little girl.