It’s torture. Pure, beautiful torture, and I hear Seth groan even as I think technically we’re not touching, there’s clothing, technically this is okay —
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, even as I roll my hips again and press my clit against him, the ache in my core fuzzing out into pleasure.
“Me too,” he growls into my mouth, kissing me again. He grabs my hips, lifts his against mine, grinding me down his entire length. Eyes closed, a noise coming from somewhere deep in his chest. “God I’m sorry.”
We don’t stop. I don’t know how to stop. Somewhere, buried deep in my brain is a sequence of events that goes stand up, walk away, take the world’s coldest shower but those thoughts flit by like clouds on a sunny day: interesting but unreachable.
Instead we make out hard enough to bruise lips. Instead we dry-hump like teenagers seeking any kind of release at all even as I force my hands to stay outside his shirt, letting myself touch him but not all the way. Not quite.
He grabs my shirt again, the same way, pulls it so it whispers over my nipples. They’re hard as diamonds, so sensitive it hurts, and he does it again until at last his hands are on my ribcage and Seth pushes me up, back, until I’m sitting upright and we’re staring at each other, panting for breath.
I clear my throat, nod. His hands slide until his they’re on my back, his thumbs on my sides, the black t-shirt stretched tight right across my tits, my nipples out and proud as a rainbow flag.
“Okay,” I whisper, my voice still husky. “Okay. Well.”
Seth’s just staring at me, chest rising and falling, every curve and dip and ripple of every muscle on nearly-full display under his sorry excuse for a shirt. His eyes fall from my face to my tits, my belly, my hips, my thighs spread over his.
No one’s ever looked at me the way Seth does. Not once. I was married, for fuck’s sake, and my ex didn’t look at me this way.
“Give me your hand,” Seth says, and I hold one out.
He takes it in his, curls my fingers around his. Kisses me slowly on the knuckles, and when he does, his eyes meet mine.
In them is the most devilish look I’ve ever seen, almost like he’s daring me to stop him.
Without saying a word, he presses my hand to my still-clothed breast, my nipple hard against my palm.
I laugh. I can’t help it. I laugh and Seth grins at me, his hands back on my thighs as I slide both hands over my nipples, palms down, letting the Loveless Brewing shirt ride up.
“Like this?” I ask, as innocently as I possibly can. It’s not very innocent.
“Exactly like that,” he says, his eyes never meeting mine.
I do it again, slowly. I pinch my nipples and grab my own tits and Seth watches me, that look on his face like this is the only thing he’s ever seen worth watching. I drag the shirt up, over them. I gasp with the friction and flash Seth some underboob, and then he growls when I drop the shirt again, my hands under it this time, twisting my own nipples until I moan.
It feels good. It feels better with him watching me.
“Take it off,” he says.
“This?” I ask, and flash him.
“You’re a goddamn tease,” he says, and pulls me in for a quick, rough kiss. “Yes, take your shirt off and quit robbing me of watching you play with your tits.”
I pinch them again and this time I moan into his mouth without even meaning to. Sparks of pleasure shoot down my back, and I pull away from him.
“You first,” I say, my voice scratchy. “Take your shirt off, throw it over there, and put your hands behind your head.”
He does. I slide my hands over my nipples again and watch him, muscles flexing and stretching in one fluid movement. He’s more padded at thirty than he was at seventeen, or twenty-two, but he’s still so fucking beautiful it takes my breath away.
“There,” he says, lacing his hands together behind his head. “You gonna arrest me, Bird?”
“No,” I say, and lean forward, take his wrists. I run my hands along his thick, muscled arms. Biceps.
God in heaven above, biceps.
“That’s what you do when I’m sucking your cock and you’re trying not to grab my hair,” I explain.
Seth grins, more wolf than human, and his muscles flex under my fingers.
“Get that off and quit teasing me,” he says, and I finally pull the shirt off. I touch myself again, let him watch. Lean in for a kiss.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I say.
“I think you should put your fingers in your pussy and tell me how wet you are,” he answers.
I do it. I lean back, my other hand on his knee, and I push my hand below the rolled-over sweatpants and slide my fingers past my clit, between my slick lips, and plunge them inside me, my hips bucking as I do. The angle is a little awkward but I shift and push deeper and crook them inside myself, my palm flat against my clit, and I moan as I find that spot.