The F-Word

I blink. “My sister?”

“She insisted. She said if I were going to be different, I had to feel different straight down to my skin.”

I grin. My sister’s some piece of work, but I don’t want her in my head right now, especially because I suddenly recall what she’d said about not hurting Bailey. Hurting her is the last thing I want to do, but…

“What?” Bailey asks.

I hesitate. “I just thought…” I hesitate again. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“This?”

I nod. “You. Me. I don’t want to do anything you don’t want…”

My shy, quiet, reserved PA digs her hands into my hair and hauls my face down to hers.

“If you knew anything about what I want,” she says fiercely, “you’d know that I’ve wanted this forever. You. Me. Exactly like this.”

I swing her into my arms and silence her with a kiss as I carry her to the bed and put her down on it. She reaches for me, but I’m unbuttoning my shirt, toeing off my shoes and socks, undoing my belt…

“Hell!” I shake my head. “I don’t have a condom.”

Bailey smiles. “It’s okay. I’m on the pill.”

Good. Great. Two questions answered. Yes, we can fuck. And no, that ridiculous idea I had a while back about her being a virgin is just that. Ridiculous.

I leave on my boxers. Not that they’re hiding much.

I am big to begin with. I think I already told you that. Now, I am more than big. My dick feels enormous, and from the way Bailey gasps when she looks at the tent my erection has made in my boxers, enormous may just be the appropriate word.

I sit down next to her.

“I want to see you,” I whisper, and I ease her up against the pillows, reach behind her and unhook her bra. She reacts instinctively, covering her breasts with her hands. It’s a sweet, old-fashioned gesture that makes me lean forward and brush my lips over hers.

I clasp her wrists, bring her hands down, and look at her.

I feel my throat constrict.

Her breasts are perfect. Not too small. Not too large. They’re—perfect. So are her nipples. They’re the palest shade of pink. They look delicious and, slowly, I bend my head and lick first one and then the other.

Bailey responds as if she’s touched a live electric wire. She gasps; her back arches. She gives a soft, keening cry. It’s the kind of response a man wants. A total turn-on, as if I’m not already turned on way beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before. I run the back of my hand across her nipples. Then I feather my fingers over them; I use my thumbs and index fingers to play with the tender, lovely flesh.

Bailey is going wild and it’s all I can do not to rip off our remaining clothes and plunge into her, but as badly as I want that, I want to bring her pleasure even more.

Her hand closes over mine.

It’s as if she’s stroking herself with me, and I hear myself groan.

How much more can either of us take?

I whisper her name. Then I bend to her, close my lips around a nipple and suck. She sobs my name. Falls back against the pillows. Her hair is like dark silk against the white linen.

“Matthew,” she says brokenly. Her hips lift.

And I know the answer to my question is that I can’t take much more.

I kiss her throat. Her breasts. Her belly button.

Her hands are in my hair. She’s making little crooning sounds as she arches towards me. I am still kissing her. She tastes like honey. Like cream. She tastes like Bailey, and I wonder if I somehow always knew this would be the way she tastes.