“Bet you’re soft,” he whispered, lips barely an inch above hers, his breath sweet. “And warm. And wet.”
Right now she was all three. But there were things she wasn’t, anymore. That awful, loaded little word she’d both coveted and resented, formed by too many lovers’ lips. Tight.
Such an ugly adjective, yet entrenched so deeply with what she represented to the men she attracted—innocence, some promise that her defiling was theirs alone to bestow. That word came part and parcel when you looked younger than your years, when you had a small frame and a sugary accent, when you were born with eyes that sent messages without your blessing, telling the world you were one way. James was the first man she’d been with who’d not treated her like some virginal cherub—and with good reason. The way they’d met, she hadn’t exactly been the picture of purity.
“I’d die to be inside you,” Casey murmured, voice low and strained.
It was with both bravery and fear that she spoke the truth. “I’m not ready for that yet. I’m sorry.” Much as she wanted to see, even feel it, much as she wanted to please him, she couldn’t. Not yet.
He smiled down at her, body stilling. “Don’t be sorry. Last thing I want is to do something you’re not into.”
“Thanks.” It wasn’t as though she hadn’t been with men who’d been content with the opposite. “I like making you feel good. It feels as good as sex to me, just now.”
“Can I keep going?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He paused to get his shorts off, and when the blanket slipped away, she seized that moment to memorize his naked body in the low light. He pulled the covers back over them, surely for discretion and not warmth—the room felt about a hundred degrees now.
He stroked against her, and the motions of his body and the friction through her underwear was as explicit as actual sex, after walling these feelings off for so long.
“Does it feel okay for you?” he whispered.
“It feels amazing.” Truly amazing—she’d forgotten the way the desire gathered, spurred by every sense. Beyond the thrill of his rushing cock, there was the feel of his bare skin under her palms, the weight and heat of him above her, the sounds of his panting, the smell of him, the divine spectacle of his strained face. She drew that face close and kissed his mouth, needing to taste him. He groaned softly, hips speeding.
And all at once, she felt it—a rushing, building pressure, that warm wash of sensation.
Holy shit. She was going to come. She hugged his waist a little higher, seeking the friction that had the pleasure rushing low and hot and frantic.
“Casey.”
She had no other words. She could only clasp the back of his neck and grip his arm, and hold on tight. He caught on in a blink—realized what was happening. His body tightened and the motions intensified, his pursuit going from pleasure-seeking to a focused mission. His every breath was a stifled moan now, desperate little seething huffs escaping in time with his racing hips. Her shirt had ridden up, and his head glanced her belly with every thrust. She could feel slickness there, evidence of how close he had to be himself. And that was what did her in, in the end.
“Casey.” She held him tight and shut her eyes, lost to it—a rushing, rising force, as startling as it was pleasurable. It came to a head at the point where his hard cock stroked her seam, dropped her from the sky and back into her body. She came down breathing hard. Panting. Shocked and exhilarated and thrilled.
Her nails were dug into his skin and she let him go in an instant. “Sorry.” Shame chased the pleasure as the dusk chased the day—inevitably, inextricably.
“Don’t be sorry. Did you . . . ?”
“Yeah,” she murmured, barely able to believe it. “Yeah, I did.”