I don’t.
When he peels the sides away, my open shirt reveals the satin and lace of my black bra and the taut, pebbled nipples beneath. Sebastian’s hands hover in the air, arms tensing, and I slide mine over his again. Like we agree, I direct him, moving his hands to my breasts. His chest has stopped moving, his breath caught somewhere deep inside, hands frozen, like he’s afraid to move.
I squeeze his hands and he breathes out a low, “Fuck yeah. Is this…?” When I nod, he lets out a stream of whispered, knee-buckling things, right into my ear. “God, your tits are fucking amazing, Sugar. Been thinking about them—about the night I had my mouth on them. You liked that, didn’t you? I know you did. I could see how wet you were.”
I gasp at the feel of his hands on my tits, back arching into his warm palms. He’s been so diligent about letting my hands move his own that I feel the rebellious sweep of his thumb against my nipple too late to feel anything but just… really fucking good about it.
I’ve experienced a lot of sharp, painful touches in my life. But touches like these? Spine-melting, leg-trembling touches that are all about sex and pleasure? Never. Hardly even with Toby, who was nice but impatient. Not even with myself.
No, these touches are new.
My brain almost doesn’t know what to think of Sebastian having dominion over my tits. Good or bad? Fuck if I know. But there’s no pain association, no instinct to flinch back, even when I hesitantly slide my own hands away.
I reach over my head, sliding my fingers behind his ear and into his hair. He pauses, but only for a moment, sensing the significance of the gesture. He starts soft and slow, testing, feeling the weight of me in his palms, and all I can do is let my head loll back on his shoulder, covering myself in the feel of it.
His lips press into my temple and slowly his hands start to massage my breasts. “Good?” he asks, as I fight the urge to buck my hips.
“Yes.”
“Do you want more?”
I nod, pressing my nose into his shoulder.
“You have to use your words, Sugar, or I can’t do it.”
I look up into his brilliant blue eyes, searching for the smug asshole I’ve been dealing with for weeks. That person isn’t there. This is just the guy who wants to make me feel good.
“I want more, Bass,” I tell him, arching my back. “Please.”
He reacts instantly, his big thumbs circle my nipples over the bra, then dip beneath to roll over the hard peaks. The rough pads of his thumbs grazing over my bare nipples sends a shockwave between my legs, warm and wet. I rotate my hips, desperate to relieve some of the pressure, which forces my ass to grind against his erection. He shudders behind me and lifts his hips into the motion.
Everything about this moment feels good—right. The pacing, the amount of pressure. When he’d told me that he could take his time and do it slow, I didn’t really believe him. I wanted to, but I’ve watched Bass lose control more than once. What would make this different? But here we are, my body on fire as he continues to taunt and tease my nipples.
He stills when I reach for one of his hands, letting me drag it away, down my belly. “What…?” he dumbly asks when it lands on the inside of my thigh.
Instead of answering, I guide it right to my hot, aching center.
He drags in a deep, shuddering breath. “Oh, fuck me.”
I grind his hand against me, bucking up against it, and the sound I make might be embarrassing, but I can hardly care. The friction and warmth are perfect, and if his fingers twitch, then I don’t hold it against him.
I drop my knees open and rest there for a moment, and there’s no way he can’t feel me throbbing against his palm, aching and desperate. Slowly, I pull my hand away, leaving him there, letting him take control of it, of making me feel good.
These hands can do a lot more than hurt, Sugar.
His words float back to me from that night, and I can still hear them perfectly—have been secretly obsessed with them ever since they were spoken. My hips rock up against his still palm, giving me a flash of his big hand against my black panties.
“Come on,” I say, straining up to press my mouth to his slack jaw. “I can take it.”
His blue eyes are hooded, fixed to the space between my legs, watching his own hand against me. When he finally moves it, fingertips brushing over the bundle of nerves hot under my damp panties, I moan.
His eyes flick to mine. I’m not sure what he sees there, but suddenly he’s all business, fingers massaging expertly against my clit, watching me squirm against him. “Christ, you’re so fucking hot, Sugar. I can feel it—how hot and wet you are. You like it, right? You want me to keep going? I can stop if you—”
“If you stop,” I grind out, “I will cut your fucking balls off, Bass.”
“Well, yeah,” he says, like this is entirely reasonable, and then takes my mouth in a hot, slippery kiss.
I already feel too hot for the blanket, for my clothes, but the way he presses against me sends my temperature higher and higher, belly coiling tight