The General (Professionals 4)

Not that I knew much of pleasure. I had at the beginning, the sweet, warm friction, the promise of oblivion, the happy little tremblings inside.

But years made Teddy even more selfish than he had been when I was young. He didn’t even try to make it work for me. Hadn’t in many years. Not that I was sure I even could. Not when his hands only made me see bruises and blood, when his mouth did nothing but spill insults, stoke my insecurity.

No.

Even if he had tried, I couldn’t have felt pleasure.

But there was no denying that pleasure was exactly what was flooding my system as my body swayed closer to his, my breasts pressing into his firm chest, my gaze holding his for a moment before my head angled and my lips sealed over his.

There was no more restraint in Smith as his hand squeezed mine once more before dropping it, his arm curling around my lower back, anchoring me to him as his lips pressed the kiss deeper, hungrier, as his teeth nipped, his tongue moved inside to claim mine.

My hands became greedy, moving away from his beard to explore his lines. The way his bicep dipped in the center, then swelled, then dipped back down into the crook of his elbow,the way his forearms felt etched of stone, his back sported raised, smooth spots I knew as scars, the way the muscles at the sides of his abdomen contracted as my finger danced over them.

A low, feral growl moved through him as my hands slipped from his sides to his lower back, down, sinking into his ass, dragging him flush to me, feeling his hardness press into my belly, as demanding as the pulsating need deep within me.

Smith’s body bent forward, pushing me back, settling me back against the pillows.

I expected him to come over me, but he sat up, kneeling between my feet, his gaze holding mine in the flickering fireplace light. His hand lifted, finding the outside of my ankle, whispering ever-so-softly upward, making the skin prickle with anticipation.

Meeting my knee, his fingers splayed, sought the soft, sensitive skin behind the bend, an unexpectedly sensitive spot, making a shiver course through me, something that made Smith’s eyes light up like he was looking for them – my spots. Like he was going to catalogue them for later. Like they mattered as much as his own did.

Selflessness.

Another first for me.

And I was going to let myself be selfish, feel every new sensation as his fingers shifted inward, teasing over the soft skin of my upper thighs, but pulled away when they were closing in on where I needed them most, choosing instead to trace the space where his tee had lifted above the line of his boxers, moving over my belly, tickling over my ribs, making my body instinctively curl upward as my muscles tensed.

“I’m gonna remember that,” he promised with a teasing little smirk before moving his fingers away, seeking new heights.

When his finger traced the underside of my breast, any thoughts of future tickle torture faded away as my nipples tweaked harder, the brush of the material over them nearly making me come off the bed.

My air left me in a wave that made my chest shake, making his gaze lift to find mine even as his hand opened, closed over the swell of my breast, the roughness of his palm inflaming the hardened point. His thumb and forefinger closed around it, rolling deliciously, making my legs slam up to his sides, curling around his back, holding him like I was afraid I might lose him, like he was going to take this newfound sensation away from me.

His body shifted, one hand bracing on the mattress as he lowered down, leaning forward to close his lips over my nipple, sucking it deep.

And I damn near came right then, my sex clenching tight as his tongue moved outward, tracing lazy, explorative circles around the sensitive bud until my hands were raking down his back, then going across my chest to repeat the same torment.

My legs were vice grips around him, but he had no intentions of leaving me as his beard brushed over my breast as his lips shifted toward the center of my chest, blazing a slow trail downward.

Loving.

That was what this was.

Something I had never been given before, something that explained all the endless songs they used to create about making love.

Now it was all about fucking.

They had no idea what they were missing.

I sure hadn’t.

His lips met the waistband of the boxers, making him press up to sit back on his knees again, pressing my legs into my chest so he could shimmy the material off my hips, sliding it down my thighs, over my knees, off my ankles.

But that wasn’t good enough.