I have laid out naked many times before, even here at this house when it was only me and Nikki looking to work on our tans. But I never thought of it as sexual. It was just me. Just skin.
Now, even the sensation of the sun on my lower back is erotic, and when Ryan steps to my side and then traces a finger lightly from my heel, up my calf and thigh, then over the curve of my ass and all the way to my shoulder, I fear that I just may die from the pleasure. “Wait here. Don’t move.”
I do as he says, though I cheat a little by spreading my legs more. I want him to see me—I want him to want me. And more than that, I want the sensation of the sun between my legs. Heat upon heat, fire added to fire.
He comes back quickly and without explanation, but when he sits beside me, I see that he has brought suntan oil. He squirts some onto my back, making me twitch from the sudden, ticklish sensation. But that is quickly quelled when his hands begin to stroke me, long, slow movements that heat my skin and fill the air with the scent of coconut and vanilla.
He pampers every inch of me, working on my hands—stroking and pulling each finger in a manner so erotic that every caress is reflected in my sex, which throbs and wants more and more as each moment passes.
He strokes my shoulders in deep, soothing motions, then moves down to knead my waist, my hips, and even my ass. He doesn’t slip further down, though—doesn’t touch me where I am so desperate to be touched. Instead he moves lower still, making my thighs slick, then focusing on my calves, my heels, the arch of my foot.
My breathing is fast, shallow. I squirm, silently begging him to slide his slick, oiled hand between my legs. But he is deliberate in his torment and does not take the hint. Instead, he bends low, brushing his lips against my ear and softly telling me to turn over.
I do, then force myself not to arch up in pleasure and longing as he gently but firmly rubs the oil over my breasts, then down my abdomen to stroke lazily over my pubis.
“I like that you’re waxed,” he says. “I like seeing your skin. Seeing you flush. Seeing how aroused and swollen you are. I bet you feel slick on my tongue. And now,” he adds as he slides his oil-slick hand between my legs, “I bet you taste like coconut.”
“Why don’t you find out?” I ask, my words little more than breaths.
“Maybe I will,” he says, then moves to the end of the chaise, roughly thrusts my legs apart, and buries his mouth between my legs, his tongue thrusting deep inside me.
The shift from slow and lazy to hard and wild is so unexpected that I arch up in surprise, lost in the swell of pleasure that is growing deeper and wilder within me.
“Yes,” I murmur, squirming against him, wanting him deeper in me, sucking me off, taking me all the way. “Yes, Hunter, oh, damn, yes.”
But then, just as I am about to explode, he draws away, leaving a soft trail of kisses descending down my inner thigh.
“No,” I protest. “Please don’t stop.”
“I’m not going to stop, kitten. I intend to have you every way I can, and then some. Sit up now,” he orders, and when I comply, he peels off his clothes.
I watch, mesmerized as he steps out of the briefs that are straining to hold in his erection. He is long and thick and perfect, and I lick my lips out of reflex. He notices and raises a brow. “Interesting,” he says. “Do you want to suck my cock.”
My own sex clenches with desire at those bold, simple words. “Yes,” I say, imagining the feel of him, the taste of him. Imagining even more the way his body would tighten and tremble, done in by my power to take him to the edge.
“Good,” he says. “But I have other plans at the moment.” He sits on the edge of the chaise. “Come here. Now turn around,” he says when I arrive facing him. I turn, and in my peripheral vision, I see him reach down and grab a condom packet. He rolls it on, then takes my hips and eases me backward.