Beside me, Bennett held very still until I let out my first quiet moan, and then he shivered and melted against me, rolling so he half covered my body, and ducked to kiss a path from my throat to my breast.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he whispered into my skin. “Tell me every fucking thought.”
“It’s your hand,” I said, feeling my pulse quicken with my own strokes, “and you’re teasing me.”
His voice was so deep it was barely more than a vibration when he asked, “How so?”
Swallowing, I told him, “I want you to touch my clit and you’re just dragging your fingers in tiny circles all around it.”
He laughed, sucking a nipple into his mouth before releasing it with a quiet, slick kiss. “Slide just one finger inside. Keep teasing. I want to hear you beg for it.”
“I want more.” My finger was so much smaller than his, and one of his was never enough. One of mine was a torment with that voice in my ear and that breath on my skin. “I want faster, and bigger.”
“Such a demanding body you have,” he said, sucking on my jaw. “I bet you’re slippery and hot. I bet I know exactly how you taste right now.”
My fingers circled, still teasing, knowing it’s what he would do. What he wanted me to do. I pressed my head back into the pillow, whispering, “Faster. Please, more of something.”
“Both hands,” he relented quietly. “Two fingers inside and work the outside. Let me hear it.”
I slid my other hand down my body and inched closer to him, feeling the unyielding shape of his renewed erection against my hip. With both hands, I touched myself, relishing the clean sweat and soap smell of him beside me, the rough scratch of his stubble on my neck and chest as he kissed me hungrily, whispering, “Goddamn it, Chloe. Let me hear you.”
My breath caught as he slid his palm over my breast, squeezing it roughly before ducking to pull the peak deep into his mouth. I loved the sound he made when he suckled me. It was desperate, and rumbling; a sound so rich I could feel it behind my eyes, and in the center of my bones.
“Oh, God,” I groaned. “Close . . .”
He released my nipple from his mouth and reached to whip the covers off my body, exposing my skin to the cool air of the hotel room and the blazing heat of his eyes.
“It’s my hand you’re fucking,” he growled. “Show me what you like.” I lifted my hips from the mattress, wanting to please him, wanting him to relent and climb over me, claim me as his.
But instead, Bennett slid one of my legs higher up my body so he could reach down and land a sharp smack on my backside. “I’d do better; my hand would fuck you harder than this. I’d make you scream.”
It was a sufficient standin, and with his lips pressed to my ear telling me he was going to fuck me so long and so rough on Saturday that the next day I’d wish it’d been my own hand instead, I managed to come, hot and pulsing against my fingers.
But it wasn’t even close to what he made me feel.
We fell back against the pillows in breathless, unsatisfied silence.
It wasn’t enough to orgasm, and to feel his breath on my breasts and his filthy words on my skin. I wanted to feel his pleasure when he came in me, or on me, or simply with me. I wanted to witness every time he felt that moment of release. He was mine; his pleasure was mine, and his body was mine. Why was he making me wait for it?
But as he ran a big, possessive hand from my hipbone to my shoulder, stopping at every curve along the way, I understood what he was doing.
He was giving me something other than the wedding to think about.
He was being a withholding ass so I would torment him.
He was making me torment him, and pretending to hate it.
He was ensuring that this week would feel like us, and we could be outwardly focused on everyone else while staying focused only on each other behind every blink, in every dark room, and in each one of our private thoughts.
Bennett was ensuring that we would see each other at either end of the aisle and know we made the best choice of our lives.