“No way are you going to come on my jeans again,” he says, reaching for the waistband of my pants. They have a drawstring, and he slowly undoes it, the black string winding around his long fingers. I watch in breathless anticipation, craving those fingers on me. In me.
I toe my shoes off, then lift my butt so he can pull my pants down my legs, leaving me in my plain black panties and white socks. Definitely not sexy. I wind my legs around his waist again, working my socks off with my big toe, and heave a sigh of relief when I’m successful. He’s staring at me again, his gaze devouring me, and he takes a step away from me so that I have no choice but to drop my legs.
“You have a condom somewhere close, right?” I ask, pressing my thighs together when he keeps watching me with that intense gaze of his.
Nodding, he reaches for me, his fingers sliding between my thighs and pushing them apart.
“You keep condoms in the kitchen?” I’m joking, but what if he says yes, as a matter of fact, I do? What if he keeps condoms in every corner of his townhouse? That would mean he’s always prepared, and I appreciate a man who’s prepared, but not if that means he’s having sex all over his house with various women.
I don’t like thinking of Jordan with various women. It’s bad enough I know for a fact he went on actual dates with Selena Gomez.
“No, I don’t keep condoms in my kitchen, Mandy. I have a condom in my wallet.” His fingers tickle the inside of my thighs, making me squirm. “Not sure if I want to fuck you here, though.”
I try to pull my thighs together, but he’s too strong. “What are you saying? Please don’t tell me you think this shouldn’t happen.”
“Oh, it’s definitely going to happen. Tonight.” The promise in his voice rings true, sending a delicious shiver down my spine. “I just don’t know what exactly I want to do to you first.”
There are so many things I want to do to him. I totally understand what he’s saying.
“I could touch you.” His fingers brush the center of my panties, making me throb. “Go down on you.” Oh Lord, I love his tongue so, so much. “Or forget the foreplay and just…go for it.”
I want all of it. He could touch me, go down on me, and then go for it. In whatever order he wants. “It’s unfair, you know.”
“What’s unfair?” He’s still stroking me between my thighs, his fingers barely touching the thin fabric of my panties. But he’s touching me perfectly, his fingers drifting over my clit, trying to drive me wild.
“That you’re completely overdressed,” I tell him.
Without a word he remedies that, whipping off his shirt, revealing all that muscly goodness. I forget all about his magical fingers and focus on his broad shoulders. His wide chest. The dark hair curling between his pecs—is there more now? Not that he’s super hairy, but he’s hairier than he was at nineteen.
And his abs. Oh. My. God. His abs. He has a six-pack. No, I take that back, he has an eight-pack. I didn’t think it was possible, but his body is even more muscular, more beautiful than it was the last time I saw him shirtless. He’s firm and hard and his stomach is flat, and I fixate on that thin path of dark hair that starts just below his navel and leads into his jeans.
Yes. I want to follow that path with my tongue. I have before. I want to do it again.
Now.
“Your body is unreal,” I tell him, my voice reverent. I sit up and reach for him, running my fingers along first one shoulder, then the other. “God, you’re hard,” I murmur almost to myself as I press my hand against his chest.
“Yeah, I am,” he says, amusement in his voice. He grabs my hand and places it on his denim-covered erection. “See what you do to me?”
It’s a powerful thing, to know I make this man want me so badly.
That power goes straight to my head, making me dizzy, making me bold. I cup his erection. Run my fingers along it. Reach for the fly of his jeans and undo the button, then slowly draw down the zipper. I spread the denim open, my fingers trailing across the warm gray cotton of his underwear, and I swear he twitches beneath my touch.
He bites out a curse when I slip my fingers beneath his briefs, encountering nothing but hot, hard skin. I wrap my fingers around his cock and he’s shoving down his underwear, his jeans, his movements frantic. I release my hold on him and he strips in record time, my fingers seeking him again just as his hand delve between my legs, slipping beneath my panties.
His fingers sink between my folds and I hiss out a long, trembling breath. I squeeze his cock and he groans. He’s so long and thick, and I familiarize myself with him, my fingers tracing the veins along his length, the velvety tip of him.
Without warning he leans in and kisses me, our eager mouths sloppy, tongues everywhere as we continue to touch each other. I’m growing wetter; I can
actually hear his fingers as he explores my depths, and when his thumb presses against my clit, I whimper into his mouth.
I’m having a serious déjà vu moment. That familiar urgency is making me remember what it used to be like between us. What it’s still like. He knew exactly how to touch me, and where. The right pressure and speed. He kisses me with perfection. No thrusting fat tongues or too much saliva. It’s always just enough, though when he does get carried away—like he’s doing right now—it’s because he’s so overcome.
He’s a tightly controlled man who loses control when he’s with me.
“Fuck this,” he says after he breaks the kiss, and for a moment I’m alarmed. Is he having second thoughts? Is he realizing that this won’t work between us? I’m this close to covering my naked bits with my hands, but then he backs away, pulling me into position so I’m poised on the very edge of the kitchen counter. He falls to his knees, his face directly in front of my legs, and he pulls my thighs apart, shoves my panties out of the way and places his mouth right on my very center.
My head falls back at the first swirl of his tongue on my clit. Holy hell, he knows just how to work it. He licks me up and down, his fingers spreading me wide open, his tongue playing with my clit. Circling it. Flicking it. Sucking it into his mouth. My orgasm is coming at me at a fast pace, and I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing he would slow down, wishing he would hurry up. I blindly grasp at his hair, pulling on it, and I swear to God I’m about to fall off the goddamn counter.