Making It Last (Camelot 4)
Even now, he could hear her. Breathing fast. The soft sucking noises of her working her fingers inside, so he had to open his eyes to see how she penetrated herself—shallow dips, moving her finger all around the opening, and then she licked two fingers on her other hand and found her clit.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
He could see everything. Everything. How fast she did it. How hard she was pressing her clit now, where before she’d been lighter, and what she was doing—he did that exact thing with his tongue. That exact tapping, circling thing, and then this harder lapping, stif
f as he pushed inside her with two fingers, sometimes three.
He’d taught her how to do that.
Or she’d taught him what she liked.
Either way. Fucking hell.
He wanted her nipple in his mouth. His fingers down there, finding their own way to help. Spreading slick moisture back to circle around her ass, which always drove her crazy when she was right on the edge.
He wanted to kiss her.
But he watched, and she got there fine on her own. Panting. Then a long moan. Her whole body lifted off the bed, tightened up. Her finger working furiously on her clit, harder and faster than he ever did, the scent of citrus and tropical sex everywhere.
She bit her free hand, right above her thumb. Bit hard, with a muffled mmphf, and he knew she must do that at home. He could see how she’d do it, flat on her back on the floor of the living room with her jeans around her ankles.
It was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen, wired directly to the space behind his balls with a focused, hot, melting pressure, because he hadn’t known. He hadn’t known. He’d had no idea she had this whole sexual life separate from him. That she could fuck herself until the tips of her ears flushed pink and she went spent and limp. It made him wonder what else she could do.
Made him want to buy her whips and chains and vibrators, empty the bank account and spend every penny they had on the entire contents of the Good Vibrations catalog. Lock the bedroom door and tease out all the other secrets she’d been keeping.
But first—before all that—he wanted to fuck her. See how he compared. See if he could make that flush spread across her chest, over her naked pussy.
Tony crawled up the bed so he could see her face. She’d draped her wrist over her eyes.
When he lifted it off, she opened them and smiled at him.
“So that’s how I do it,” she said.
“Yeah.”
That was how she did it.
“I stand by my original position,” he told her.
“Which is?”
“You should show your husband. As often and as thoroughly as possible.”
She smiled again, and he kissed her.
* * *
He kissed like Tony. He tasted like Tony, and his weight felt like Tony’s on top of her. The stroke of tongue into her mouth when she parted her lips—Tony.
There was no way to pretend and, it turned out, no reason to. Not once his hand had gripped her ankle, pulled her down the bed. He’d taken off her panties like Tony, spread her legs open with one big hand on each thigh in a confident grip that spoke of familiarity and possession.
Her husband.
His wife.
And if he hadn’t—if he hadn’t been Tony, if he’d felt like Steve, looked at her like Steve—she never would have taken it so far. It was the craving in Tony’s eyes, the hard clench of his jaw, and most of all the sound he’d made when he unzipped his jeans and took his cock in his hand that had made her do it.
A low, tortured moan that said she’d surprised him, and he’d liked it. It made her want to surprise him some more. It made her feel as though she’d taken a sledgehammer to the invisible wall between them, and when she hit it, the air filled with masonry dust and sharp shards of rock, and they lodged in her with a sweet sort of pain that she remembered from a long time ago.