I go to him, and he opens his legs so I can stand between them. Carefully, reverently, he raises his right hand and strokes his fingers across my stomach, coming to rest on my hip. His hands aren’t soft. They’ve been used to fight his whole life. He’s built so many things for the gym and for the house in the last few months, and he’s chopped about three truckloads of wood just for fun. They’re calloused and rough, but the way he uses them to touch me is so very gentle.
With him still sitting down, he has to look up at me as he touches me. His left hand moves up my body, palming the heavy swell of my breast, one at a time; he straightens so that he can take the nipple he was pinching a moment ago into his mouth. He may have been staring at my lips not to long ago, but now it’s my turn to stare. His lips are incredible. Full and expressive and biteable. I’m already wet, but watching him lick and suck at me while his strong, demanding hands work their way over every part of my skin makes my body go wild.
I can’t touch him. I know I can’t, not yet, but I want to so badly, it’s killing me.
“Your body was made for me, Sloane,” he groans. “Turn around.”
I know better than to disobey. I’m still a girl, though. I still have my body hang-ups, and my ass is one of them. No one could ever accuse me of not having one, that’s for sure. With anyone else, I’d undoubtedly be self-conscious, but my brain is too crowded to even comprehend that right now. I just want to feel him touching me, enjoying me, exploring me. The way he worships my body, from the very first time we slept together, has always made me feel like I am perfect.
Zeth runs his hands up over the curve of my ass and then over my hips, taking hold of me so he can pull me back toward him. I feel his mouth, hot and insistent pressing into the skin of my lower back, and then even hotter when he uses his tongue. He travels down, licking and biting at my butt cheek, making me squirm.
“Open your legs, Sloane.” His voice is thick with lust, low and demanding. I open my legs, only slightly mortified that he’s about to discover what he’s done to me. His fingers trail painfully slowly up the inside of my thigh, until he eventually reaches the junction between my legs. He hovers just to the side of my pussy, knowing that it’s driving me absolutely insane to have him so close to touching me, and yet refraining. I’m panting, and my legs feel weak. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and I could wring his neck for it, but I’m also enjoying it. Enjoying it way, way too much. This is part of our game. I can’t react. I can’t just jump him. If I do, he’ll torture me until I can’t bear it anymore. Sometimes that can be fun, but right now I need him so badly. My body needs to feel like it’s complete.
I hold my breath, careful not to move as he bites at me some more, on my hips, my ass, my thigh. The biting gets progressively harder, until I can barely stand anymore. It hurts, yes, but it also feels incredible. Zeth laughs mercilessly under his breath as my own kicks up a notch. Eventually he guides his fingers backward between my legs, sweeping them over my slick pussy, making my whole body lock up. His fingers…his fingers there…
I can barely form a coherent thought.
“My god, Sloane,” he sighs. “Look at you. You’re ready for me, aren’t you?”
I look back at him over my shoulder, my heart burning in my chest when I see the awe on his face. He looks almost stunned. I nod, feeling my cheeks burn that little bit hotter. “I need to wrap myself around you,” I whisper. “I need you inside me. I need you to hold onto me so tight I can’t breathe. I don’t want to know where you end and I start anymore.”
Zeth makes a guttural, sexual noise that sends chills through my body. It’s thrilling. “Lay down on the grass, Sloane.” His tone is soft, but it brooks no argument. I know there’ll be hell to pay if I object.
The grass is cold and tickles my skin, but my whole body is hypersensitive right now. It feels incredible. Zeth stands up, towering over me, every muscle in his body tensed. The tattoos, the black sweeping ink he’s worn for as long as I’ve known him, look stark against his skin in the half-light. The fleur de lis over his right pec rises and falls quickly along with his chest as he fights to control his breathing.
“Open your legs for me,” he commands.