Sweet, sweet sexual tension.
The longer we make out, the harder Jackson’s dick becomes; it’s long and hot against my thigh, but he makes no move to grind on me or grab my hand and draw it down south.
The longer we make out, the wetter I become downstairs. I’m hot and impatient, wanting more than this innocent kissing. Okay, not so innocent since we’re mostly unclothed, in bed together, in a dark room and not officially in a relationship.
But we’ve known each other for weeks, possibly our whole lives, my brain argues. You’re ready for whatever Jackson wants.
I know he’s not going anywhere—I wouldn’t be here with him now if he wasn’t interested. He’s gone twenty-two years without so much as having sex with someone, and he isn’t taking this ‘thing’ with me lightly.
So I push.
Do a little gyrating to see how he responds. Where will he move his hands if I do the seducing?
I’m still wearing my bra—he hasn’t touched my bare breasts, or seen me completely naked. I’ve seen his dick in the near dark but haven’t had it near my center.
You couldn’t fit a dime between us, so inching closer is impossible, but I take a palm and press it against his pec, pushing a bit so he knows I want him on his back.
Reach for the bedside table and feel around for the small lamp I know is there, fumble for the switch. Its low glow gives off just enough light for me to see his expression, and I want him to see me. I want him to watch when I climb on top of him and remove my bra.
Watch his face change when my arms reach behind my back and release the tiny clasp. Work the straps down my shoulders, letting them sag over my upper arms before shimmying them all the way down.
I’m sitting on top of him as if I’m in a saddle, tossing my bra to the floor; it lands somewhere nearby. Jackson isn’t wearing a shirt, so when I move my body forward and let my boobs smash his chest, he inhales. A sharp intake of breath that spurs me on.
I line up our privates; only our underwear separates us, and let’s be honest, mine is merely a scrap of material that conceals nothing. I feel everything—the head of his dick, the shaft, his balls.
The tip rubs my clit in the most pleasurable way, and I bite down on my bottom lip, loving it.
My breathing quickens.
“Dry fucking should become a sport.” Jackson sighs, out of breath.
“Only dry fucking?” The words slip from my tongue and say what I don’t have the nerve to vocalize: Let’s have sex.
Our gazes meet, and I continue bearing down on his dick, round and round, my eyes closing as I tip my head back, face toward the ceiling.
They’re still closed when Jackson’s giant palms cup my breasts, thumbs stroking my nipples.
“Your tits are…”
Amazing—yes, I know.
“Can I…” Jackson hesitates. “Can I…”
Can you what? Finish your sentence before I die from the pleasure of having your hands caressing my boobs.
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he does say, “Lean forward and grab the headboard.”
Um. Yes, sir.
I lean forward, grasping for the headboard, and Jackson meets my body, mouth latching onto one of my nipples.
Ahh, I see. ‘Can I suck your tits?’ is what he wanted to ask but didn’t have the guts to say.
“Oh Jackson,” comes my soft murmur. It feels…it feels…
My toes curl. I throb; my vagina actually has a heartbeat I can feel, blood rushing straight to my crotch as I rotate his tip along my slit.
Wet. Hot. Dry fucking.
With his mouth still sucking on my nipple, Jackson’s other hand reaches between us. Hooks my underwear with whatever finger he’s using, draws back the fabric.
“I want you so bad,” I moan—or more like croak.
“I want you too.”
Yes, please. Yes. Fuck me.
Everything with Jackson is thought out; he is the least impulsive guy I’ve ever met, if you don’t count the time he stole my damn chicken sandwich in the cafeteria, although I suspect he planned that out, too. Waited until it was done, watched it cook before snatching it.
But sex? He isn’t just going to have sex with me unless he’s already given it thought and has come to a conclusion about it.
“What if I fuck it up?” He’s referring to sex.
“You won’t, baby.” I take a hand down off the headboard and rake my fingers through his thick hair. “You won’t.”
“But what if I do?”
“How could you possibly?”
“What if I come after two minutes?”
Er, I’m not liking the sound of that, but I’m also not about to tell him that. He’d be crushed.
“Then we do it again when you’re ready.” I bend forward, hair hitting the pillow behind him. “We’ll wait.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Okay. Then we won’t.” A bubble of laughter. “You tell me what you want, Jackson, and we’ll do it. I don’t want you to feel pressured.” I kiss his temple. His cheekbone. The corner of his mouth. “I love you.”