He slides his fingers up my thigh. “No one else,” he says, his hand paused on my thigh.
“No one else what?” I’m confused, distracted by the fact that his hand is on my thigh, paused, unmoving, radiating warmth through my body, heat that pools between my legs. I want him to keep moving his hand farther up my body. I want his fingers inside me.
I want more than his fingers inside me.
I’ve been craving him since the first time he touched me.
Hell, I’ve been craving him for years, before I even met him. I just didn’t know it yet.
He squeezes my thigh. “You shouldn’t date anyone else,” he says, his voice thick.
“You shouldn’t tell me what to do,” I say, my voice cracking as his hand inches up further, until his thumb reaches the crease between my thigh and *.
“Oh?” he asks, his blue eyes trained on mine as he grazes my * lips lightly with his thumb, so lightly that it’s like a whisper, and it nearly makes me lose my mind. “I think you like me telling you what to do.”
“You’re crazy,” I whisper. But he finds my clit with his finger, literally pushing my button, and arousal courses through me so intensely that I swear I could come right here, right now, just from his touch.
“You’re not seeing anyone else,” he whispers, his finger pressing against me, unmoving.
“You’re the one who’s a player,” I whisper, as he slides his fingers lower. I’m slick between my legs, soaking wet for him.
“You think this is a game, Red?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for a response, just plunges two fingers deeply inside me, covering my mouth with his as I moan my answer. I don’t know what my answer is. I’m too drunk with lust to even think about it. I don’t know if it’s a game or not -- seducing the single mom -- but if it is, I don’t care. I want to play it, if it means he keeps doing what he's doing with his fingers.
When he pulls his mouth away from mine, my lips are swollen, bruised by his kiss. He continues to stroke me steadily with his fingers until I’m at the brink, driven to the edge by him. “You’re mine,” he says.
“Oh, God,” I moan. I’m sliding my hands under his shirt, pulling at the fabric, trying to touch his chest, trying to touch all of him, but he won’t let me.
“Say it,” he demands.
“I’m yours.” I choke out the words, drunk with lust, but feeling so vulnerable that the words break as I speak them.
“Fuck.” He utters the word like an exhale, as if he’s been holding it in forever, waiting for me to say the words. “This is mine.”
“Yes,” I breathe, as he strokes me inside, his fingers pressing against the textured part of me, bringing me close to the edge so quickly. I run my hands down his hard chest, feeling his chest muscles flex underneath my fingertips, then down his abdomen, and lower, palming his hardness over his jeans. When I reach for his belt buckle, clumsily fumbling with it, desperately wanting him inside me, he pushes my hand away and strokes me harder.
“I’m yours,” he says, not the least bit hesitating, and the words push me over the edge, immediately and unexpectedly. Luke covers my mouth with his, his tongue finding mine, silencing my moans.
He doesn’t give me a moment’s reprieve. I’m still throbbing, still fluttering tightly around his fingers when he takes them away, and pulls me on top of him as he falls back to the sofa. Before I can object, before I can say anything, Luke slides his hands under my ass, underneath my dress, and pulls me across his chest. “On my face,” he says. “Now.”
I try to protest, but he doesn’t let me, his response even more insistent as he guides me to straddle him, still trembling from my orgasm. My black dress ruches up around my waist in little piles of silk.
I'm self-conscious. What the hell am I doing, sitting on this man’s face in the middle of my living room? But once he pulls me down against him, his tongue pressing against my clit, licking me mercilessly, I begin to lose my inhibitions. Slowly, as he fucks me with his tongue, I start to ride him, losing myself in the waves of pleasure that wash over me.
When he has me on the edge, consumed by need and pleasure, he pulls me away from his face. I hear myself whimper, like I’m somewhere outside of my body, and it doesn’t sound like me. I'm not this girl, one who whimpers, but this man has me whining, moaning, ready to beg for him.