Oh God, I came with his mouth on my clit, his finger inside me. Through the haze in my brain and the pleasure still shuddering up and down my spine, making my insides contract again and again as my orgasm ebbs away, I’m having a little breakdown.
Shitshitshit, can’t believe this just happened. He’s still lying there, his head on my thigh, his panting breath scorching my skin—still dressed, where I’m naked on his couch, underneath him, splayed wide, and—
“Beautiful,” he rasps, and I freeze. “You’re beautiful. The way you came, from my touch, Christ, I…” He puts his hands by my hips and lifts himself up, his gaze intense, burning into me. “That was fucking awesome.”
“You liked it?” I put my hands over my breasts, covering up the best I can, but he’s having none of it. He gently pries my hands off, and his eyes darken as he stares down at my breasts.
“Are you fucking kidding me, woman? Asking me if I liked going down on you, licking you, fingerfucking you until you came calling out my name?”
Oh crap, I did that? Now I want to cover my face, but he’s still holding my hands. He lifts them, one by one, and places kisses on my palms that burn like stars in my mind.
“I came,” he says, and when I glance up, startled, I find him grinning down at me. “I almost didn’t need to touch myself, I was so close. I fucking loved it, loved tasting you and touching you. I’d do it every day and every night, but…” He winks. “I have more things I wanna try out with you.”
Other things. Unable to help myself, I think of his cock, the way it looked, swollen and flushed, when I’d touched it the other day, the way he’d showed me how to touch it, and then him coming, shaking, falling apart.
I want him inside me. The thought both excites and frightens me. I remember well how big his cock was, but I want… want to feel it stretching me, piercing me deep. I want to touch his chest, his powerful shoulders, study his ink, study every scar and every memory imprinted on his skin.
Kissing him, touching him, making him come, seeing the pleasure flitting over his handsome face… Then wrapping him up in my arms, keeping him safe. God, never wanted anything so much.
What’s happening to me? Who is this girl living in my skin, wearing my face, a girl I didn’t know until now? Where did she come from?
Was she inside me all along, only waiting to be let out?
He moves, breaking through my musings, sitting back, massaging his thigh through his sweats. With a twinge of guilt, I remember his bad knee—a little too late. Can’t feel too guilty, though, not when he’s looking at me sideways, that satisfied grin still on his lips.
He looks happy, I realize with a start, and it could well be the first time since I met him that the shadow of sorrow darkening his gaze is gone.
I’m still staring, mesmerized by his boyish smile, the sparkle in his dark eyes, when he decides to undress.
End of profound thoughts. End of thinking, period. I think I might be drooling.
Holy crap, this boy. I mean, I saw him naked once before, but I was nervous and stressed and not sure what the hell was happening—why I was looking at him, or touching him. Why I was drawn to him.
No such doubts now.
He pulls his T-shirt off, revealing his inked chest, and those mouthwatering muscles ripple as he tugs the cloth over his head and lets it drop to the floor. Small brown nipples on defined pecs, and the snake tattooed on his shoulder moves with the shifting of his biceps, opening its mouth wider.
A shiver travels through me, but then he’s pushing down his wet sweats and briefs, the musk of his cum rising, so sexy—and who cares about that snake when he’s bared to me completely? His cock is half-hard, jutting out from soft dark curls, and his sack hangs heavy underneath. His thick thighs are almost hairless, and his hipbones jut out below his narrow waist.
My gaze returns to his cock. It’s hardening as I watch, thickening, lengthening. His breathing is growing ragged, but he doesn’t do anything. Just sits there, letting me look until I have my fill.
Until I sit up, too, vaguely aware of my own nudity but not as nervous as I thought I’d be—not after his mouth and hands have been all over me, when he said I’m beautiful, when he came from touching me and kissing me—and I reach for him.
My hands brush over the demon inked on his chest, over his small nipples. They react instantly, hardening under my palms, and his abs contract. Jeez, hello six-pack! He rocks a perfect washboard stomach, and I can’t resist running my fingertips over its bumps and grooves.
A soft growl escapes him. His cock jumps when I touch it.
“You’re hard again,” I whisper, stating the obvious, but hey. “I thought guys took longer to recover.”
“I want you too much,” he mutters, a flush rising to his cheekbones. “I’ve wanted you for too long.”
God, he’s fascinating. I’m torn between kissing those cheekbones, his long lashes, the tip of his nose, his lips—his chest, his stomach, his cock.
Then his words sink in, and my heart trips over. “You have?”
He shakes his head, looks away. “Fuck.”
“Didn’t know you were—”