She licked his small flat nipple, her tongue making little wet circles around the center. He wanted to touch her back. To hold and stroke and taste. But he didn’t. Not even when her tongue licked across the arch of his ribs. And then his other nipple. Her hands had not left his cock. She was working the shaft with both hands, pumping him as she slid her tongue down his chest. It left a wet trail that quickly chilled in the cold room. Yet the shivery feeling running over his skin only made him hotter, and stiffer. Her tongue trailed liquid sex as it dipped into his belly button and circled, slowly, twice.
He lost the battle to keep silent. A groan vibrated deep in his throat. He moved an arm to throw it over his eyes so that he could feel. Just feel. Everything.
He felt her shift backward, her bare ass sliding down his thighs. He braced in anticipation. Knowing, hoping, what came next.
When she touched her tongue to the tip of his cock it jerked involuntarily. And then her lips, warm and wet, were sliding over it, expanding to accommodate the smooth knob.
She licked him, tracing the length of underside with her tongue as she sucked him in. He levered up in the bed, unable to remain still any longer.
“No.” She raised up and put a hand on his chest.
He stared at her with hot eyes. She still wore a slouchy top, covering every inch of her from neck to fingertips to thighs. How easy it would be to grab her arm and pull her forward and snatch off that offending garment. Then flip her over so that the wonderful warm womanly length of her would be skin-to-skin under him. But it wasn’t going to be like that. To his astonishment, he went back onto the bed when she gave him a little push.
He’d never understood the supposed pleasure in a man giving up control. With Yard, it was an aphrodisiac. They weren’t kids just learning their own sexual natures. They were partners in pleasure. Her play. Her moment. His to accept. Hot damn.
She rose up on her knees and inched forward until a knee was aligned on either side of his hips. Still holding his cock in one hand, she lifted the hem of her top to reveal her sex. He stared at the apex of her thighs. His hands clenched. He could look but not touch. Oh, but if looks could thrill.
From somewhere—as if it mattered—she had produced a condom and was smoothing it down over him with the firm potent touch of her hands. He was grateful because he was beyond caring about such considerations. But that was Yardley, always prepared, whatever the situation.
She squeezed his cock, directed it to the right angle, and began making little circles with her hips. Each undulation brushing his tip with her sex. Each rotation producing a little more friction. Parting her lower lips. He could feel the heat. The wet warmth of her spread over him like honey. It was the most erotic dance he’d ever seen. More sensual than a lap dance. Slower than a bump and grind. It was all he could do not to arch his hips and claim her.
But this was her party.
She sank down on him very, very slowly. An inch at a time. After each inch she paused, closed her eyes, and breathed slowly, as if encompassing him was a pleasure to be savored, recorded with her senses. The walls of her sex fluttered, expanded, caressed. He’d never felt more potent, or important, or appreciated.
When she had slid that final inch onto him his rougher sigh echoed hers. She was near to bursting with him. He filled every space within her so tightly that just breathing made little contractions erupt around him. And then she began to move.
She rose up, her hands pressed to his chest, and again circled her hips before dropping down so that he sank deep within the wet silk of her core.
He tried to be patient. But first one hand and then the other moved to find the shape of her waist. To hold her, rock her, help direct the exquisite torture of her lovemaking. Yet she set the pace. This wasn’t for amateurs. Twenty-one wouldn’t have made it last. Thirty-six gave him just enough control to dangle on the edge of sexual oblivion, for her pleasure.
He began to sweat. His chest became slick with the exertion of holding back. Her hands moved and firmed on the curve of his biceps, fingers digging in on hard muscle as she began to ride him harder, quicker, with an urgency he had no trouble matching.
Little gusts of pleasure pulsed through her parted lips as she moved, riding rough sweet desire.
She suddenly changed rhythms, went into a frenzied pumping action. His hands clenched her hips so that he could match her thrust for thrust. He heard her hiss in pain, remembered the bruises, and let her go.
She looked down at him, frowning. “Don’t stop.”
That was all the invitation he needed.
Climax. Such a pitiful word for the explosion of body, mind, and emotions that erupted between them. She was breathing harshly, a woman on the verge, and he was gasping at the freight train rumbling straight through his cock.
There was nothing staged or controlled about Yardley’s orgasm. She rode him like an expert rodeo bull rider, hanging on for dear life yet still driving him on until she’d wrung every drop from him.
He came so violently it bordered on pain and then drove right through it.
She collapsed across him, sweaty hair veiling his face, clinging to his lips, her heart pounding against his ribs. Bodies glued together. Her mouth open and pressed into the side of his neck.
Kye swallowed, trying to slow his heart but too damn impressed by what had just happened to care if she’d given him a heart attack.
They hadn’t even kissed.