“Yes.” The admission slips past my lips without an ounce of regret. I tell myself it doesn’t have to mean that Roman is the man for me. That this moment doesn’t have to mean anything, either. It can be a blip, a misstep. An itch to be scratched. Even if I have been thinking about him all night.
Him, me, a bed, and a little time, and a lot of orgasms.
I raise my hand, intending to draw him closer, wanting to kiss him, to inhale him whole, when he catches it. Pressing a tender kiss to my palm, his tongue flicks to the tip of my middle finger. My legs go elastic when he sucks it between his lips.
“What are you doing to me?” I whisper as he brings my hand to the elastic of my panties, lifting the fabric and sliding it inside.
“Showing you a little reverence.” His lips are tender at my ear as he slides that wet digit against me. “Let me see how you touch yourself.”
A tangle of sensations twists through me, yet my response sounds a little tart. “That sounds like I’d be revering myself for your enjoyment.”
“No, little love,” he murmurs as he dips and begins to slide my panties down my legs. He stands again, his cheek’s roughness against mine another layer of sensation I can barely process. “I want to know where your pleasure lives.”
“I’m not sure you’ve ever needed anatomy lessons.”
“Kennedy.” There’s a hint of steel in his tone that appears to be the kind of encouragement I don’t need but appreciate as his hands tighten on my hips. “Are you trying to force me to fuck this attitude out of you?”
“I beg your pardon,” I splutter, wondering why my nerve endings are suddenly flashing like Christmas tree lights.
“You will beg. By the time we’re through tonight, you’ll be begging me not to make you come again. Now, step out.”
It must be the good girl in me who makes me step from the pool of my black lacy panties. He tugs me backwards and down to the edge of the bed, settling me between the v of his legs. I press my knees together, you know, good girl, but I remember that well-thumbed passage of that book and suddenly wonder if I’m not so into this.
I watch as his fingers spread wide against the smooth skin of my thighs, slipping between them to press my knees apart. Or they would if I hadn’t pressed them together like a vise. “Shy, sweetheart?”
I ignore the way his words end in a playful curl because the answer is clearly yes, yet I shake my head, my dark hair suddenly wild and curling around my shoulders. When did he loosen it?
Roman’s dark eyes are solemn even as a tiny smile pulls at the corner of his lips. “You don’t like that I’ve taken a little inspiration from your reading choices?”
“It’s just a book,” I mutter, my tone full of denial.
“So you don’t want to be taken by the dastardly pirate? Well, that’s a relief.” His mouth twists. “I don’t think I could carry off the accent.”
I giggle, relieved because there’s reading and, well, there’s reality. And I wasn’t so sure I was ready to actually . . . thumb myself.
“But you could still show me.” His words aren’t quite a demand, more a temptation. His lips slide across my shoulder, the soft fabric of my dress slithering down my arm. My bra strap follows, dragged by his teeth in a move that’s deeply erotic. “Show me, darling. Show me how you liked to be touched. Where you want to be licked and sucked.”
We both hear my breathlessness; see the way my body responds to his caressing fingers, to the visual he paints. Slowly, my knees become pliant, and he widens them, exposing me to both of our gazes.
“I’m not sure.” I hate the hesitant wobble in my tone. I feel conflicted, and yes, I’m turned on, but I’m not sure I’m ready to . . .
“Let me help you.” I shiver at the drag of his finger up my thigh, and as he reaches the apex, he presses it to that already slick ribbon of my flesh.
I gasp, my knees falling wider without true cognisance. The sight in the mirror is such an unexpected seduction as I watch as Roman pushes his finger inside.
I am so wet. We both hear it and feel the evidence of it. Whatever I was feeling before becomes background noise as I tilt my pelvis with a mewl, utterly undone by the sight and the sensation of his knuckle disappearing inside me. He begins to finger me, the slide so deliberate and slow, as his mouth showers my neck with kisses and the kind of dirty poetry that lights me up. He tells me how proud he is of me. Of what a good girl I am, watching as I take his finger. He tells me how beautiful my pussy is, how it grips him. Of how hard I’m making him and how many times he’s going to make me come.