I didn’t consciously do it, but my legs relaxed, and I spread them farther apart.
His fingers trailed down lower, the tiny vibrations of his fingers against cloth transferring to my skin, making me flare even hotter, making me even wetter.
And then I felt his fingers at the top of my jeans… and the gentle pop of the button… and the slow zzzzzz of the zipper.
I opened my eyes. My chest was heaving now, my breathing labored, my heart hammering in my chest.
He paused, waiting for me to say something.
I didn’t.
His fingers slid softly down my belly, under the edge of my underwear, caressing their way through my hair down there… and then the tip of his finger found my wetness.
I gasped.
He was still breathing softly, his lips caressing the folds of my ear, his tongue gently licking my earlobe…
His finger dabbed my wetness and used it to barely, barely touch my clit, using the lightest pressure imaginable as he circled around it, then over it, the slightest caress, sending shivers of pleasure through me from head to toe.
Oh God, I felt like I was going to die.
His fingertip kept circling, caressing, so wet, so soft, the tiniest bit of pressure, over and over and over and over –
– and then he leaned across my body and kissed me.
Not hard. He kissed me the way he’d been breathing in my ear: no more than a whisper of a touch, his lips barely meeting mine… soft… caressing me with his wetness…
Just like his finger circled me, wet, stroking me, wetter, soft but gradually increasing, my clit throbbing so sweetly and my muscles contracting in tiny spasms every twelve seconds, then every ten, then every eight, getting closer and closer together as the shudders got more and more intense.
I opened my mouth the tiniest bit and he slipped gently between my lips. Our tongues touched, wet, sliding against each other, soft but more insistent, just like his finger as it began speeding up, gradually, the pressure increasing, circling me, stroking me, firmer, more pressure, and the tiny contractions were getting bigger and more powerful and more rapid and more intense and I opened my mouth to him completely and moaned as he entered me fully with his tongue. His fingertip, now drenched, moved faster and firmer and sweeter and harder and suddenly I was coming and I clutched at him, arching my hips against his hand, crying out into his mouth, feeling the waves rolling through me so powerfully that I couldn’t think, contractions on top of each other, pleasure and bliss and ecstasy and I cried out again and again, and then I was gasping and settling back down, and I couldn’t stand it anymore, I was too sensitive, so I put my hand on his and he stopped.
He pulled back away from me and searched my face, his eyes moving back and forth between my eyes, searching for… anger? Hurt? Feelings of betrayal?
None of that here.
I only felt desire.
“…was that… are you…” he whispered.
“Take off your clothes,” I whispered back.
66
He didn’t need to be told twice.
He rolled off the bed and stood up –
“Slowly,” I whispered. “I want to watch.”
He stopped and stared down at me in the candlelight, then nodded like he was dazed.
You know how hot guys in the movies take off their shirts? They reach up behind their backs and grab the fabric and pull it over their heads, and the whole shirt lifts up from their abs, and it looks really sexy?
Derek did that, and it was even hotter.
He did it slowly, just like I told him to.
He reached behind him and began to pull his shirt over his head.
I watched in silent awe as the fabric slid up over his stomach, revealing his abs. They were amazing. Like a real-life Calvin Klein underwear ad, but better. Deep shadows ran between the muscles, outlining him like some sort of Rembrandt or Caravaggio painting. (Thank you, Art History 101.)
I couldn’t help myself. I had to reach out and touch them.
My fingers glided over his flawless skin, and I could feel the ridges of his muscles beneath my touch. He groaned as my cool skin glided over hot flesh, and I could feel the muscles twitch in ecstasy beneath my fingertips.
The shirt slid past his ribs and across his massive chest, and the reality of him was better than any fantasy. Firm, massive pecs… tiny, dark nipples… the lightest dusting of chest hair, just enough to make it obvious he didn’t shave. His tattoos were dark shapes across his skin, barely visible in the candlelight.
He tossed aside the shirt and put his large, rugged hands on his belt –
I stopped him with just a touch of my fingers.
He looked down at me, tortured, hungry.
Please, PLEASE, we can’t stop now! he seemed to be begging.
We aren’t, I said to him with my eyes.
But I want to do it.