“I want to see you,” I beg. “Please, Damien. I want you naked, too.”
“Do you?” He moves to stand in my field of vision, then tortures me a little by removing his clothing so painfully slowly. His chest is well-muscled and dusted by a sexy smattering of chest hair that I like to tease with my fingers. My fingers twitch now, thinking about the feel of him against my hand, the hot skin and hard muscle of his abdomen. He may not have played tennis professionally in years, but there is nothing soft about Damien, and whether he’s in a thousand dollar suit or a fifty dollar pair of jeans, he is sex and power and sensuality personified.
As if he realizes that he’s driving me crazy, he hooks his thumb into the band of his jeans. I can see his erection bulging against the denim, and my body throbs simply from the knowledge that he is as turned on as I am. My nipples are hard and erect, rubbing almost painfully against the rough lace of my bra. My sex is drenched. And when I breathe in deep, I catch the scent of my own arousal.
I whimper a bit, and keep my eyes on Damien.
Slowly, he peels the jeans off. They’re slung low on his narrow hips, and as I follow that disappearing trail of hair down to where it nestles against the base of his cock, I have to silently curse Damien. I want to touch him. Hell, I want to suck him. But I am trapped. Trapped and turned on and so goddamned needy.
He is naked now and fully erect, hot and huge, and my sex clenches in anticipation. He moves back to the bed, and I feel the mattress shift as he gets on behind me. His hands are warm upon my hips, and when he strokes the tip of his cock down the crack of my rear, I have to bite the comforter in order to anchor myself as bone deep shudders rake through me. Not an orgasm—but close enough that I am teetering on the very edge of desperation.
“That’s it, baby,” he says as his hands stroke my back, and the hard length of his cock continues to tease my ass.
My skin is hot and blood pounds through me. I can feel my pulse in my throat, in my temples, in my heavy, swollen breasts. Most of all, I can feel the blood surging in my sex. Pounding me, teasing me. Making me want so much more that I wiggle my ass shamelessly and beg Damien to please take me now.
“Not just yet,” he whispers, and it is all I can do not to scream with frustration. He leans closer, his voice a low, sensual tease. “Do you remember what you told me once? About how you own a very nice vibrator?”
All the blood that was pounding in my cunt now seems to rush to my cheeks.
Considering everything I’ve done with Damien—not to mention everything he’s done to me—I don’t know why the fact that I own a vibrator should raise modesty flags, but it does.
“Nikki?” He rubs his palms over my rear, then slides his hand down to stroke my sex. Slowly, he slips one finger inside me, then another. My body responds greedily, the muscles of my vagina tightening around him, my hips thrusting, my breathing coming fast and shallow. And then, suddenly, his hand is gone, and there is nothing. Just that electrical charge that I always feel when Damien is near. But there is no touch, and I close my eyes and whimper in frustration.
His low chuckle rises from behind me, and I do not doubt that he understands the extent of my discomfiture. “Do you want me to touch you, Nikki? My palm stroking you? My fingers filling your cunt? Do you want me to spread you wide and thrust inside you, our bodies moving together, my hand on your clit stroking and teasing until we both explode?”
I bite my lower lip, determined not to answer aloud. He already damn well knows what I want.
“Then tell me where, baby. Just tell me where.”