He took the touch deeper, finding her wet. His breath hitched; his face warmed. His cock ached, dying to get inside her.
“Feels nice to me, too.” Deeper still, until his thumb was slick from her. He rubbed her clit—small circles at first, then lighter flicks. He got his other thumb wet and touched her with both, in tiny symmetrical strokes like parentheses. Her legs tensed and squeezed and a soft moan hummed in her throat.
Bingo.
He gave her exactly that, playing around until he knew how much pressure to use, exactly how slow she liked it. Slow was good—he loved when a woman needed it slow. Seemed like they came for ages when you coaxed it out, instead of a fast and frenzied rush.
Abilene was getting close—he could tell from how stiff her clit was, and how her lips had grown swollen. From the smell of her.
“Can I use my mouth?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
He moved back, dropping onto his forearms. He slid one hand under her ass and eased her thigh wider with the other. He took her in with a long greedy breath, and sighed his satisfaction right there against her *.
There was a lot to be said for deprivation where sex was concerned, and aside from the odd glance of his nose, he ignored her clit to start. He pressed kisses along her seam, licked her lightly, then deeper. He hadn’t tasted this in far too long. So long she could have been his first, for how exotic it felt.
He gave it to her like that for long minutes, until her fingers were in his hair and her belly was quivering with little gasps. When her legs tensed, he eased them wider. He didn’t hide his own excitement—he moaned as loudly as he dared and let the odd sigh steam her skin.
“Casey.” The hands on his head were growing plaintive or bossy, fingers tugging at his hair.
“What do you need?” He knew but wanted to make her say it.
“Higher,” she murmured.
He had no doubt she was too shy to say “clit” but no matter. Maybe given time, she’d learn to get demanding. Casey liked few things more than getting ordered around in bed, especially by shy girls. He rewarded her with a long, slow lap of his tongue, all the way up and over her clitoris.
She gasped, grip tightening. He gave her another stroke, another, and crept that hand on her thigh up closer, closer. Close enough to run his thumb along her wet lips, then dip inside. Another gasp, and it was all he could do not to free a hand and touch himself. His dick was a screaming frustrated beast.
He closed his lips around her clit, working it with his tongue as he eased two fingers inside her. Was she thinking about what might come next? About his cock? Was she thinking of him at all, or of whatever mysterious fantasies hatched inside women’s heads when they were inching toward orgasm? He didn’t care, as long as he was the one getting her there. He worked his fingers in and out, reminding her of what she hadn’t felt in over a year, teasing himself with what he hadn’t done since last spring. Imagined how sweet it’d feel to sink inside her, right here, and slowly, torturously, edge himself to a body-wringing release.
Her hips told him when he’d found the right speed and pressure—they rolled subtly, seeking his tongue and the thrust, mimicking sex. He wanted to groan, to swear, to tell her how fucking hot she was; he didn’t. He kept up the pleasure until her motions grew sharp and urgent, until her hands trembled, and he let her hear his desire in the moans rising up from his throat, humming against her *. He wished he could see her face as he had yesterday when he’d made her come, beautiful and wild and disbelieving.
He got her voice instead, whispering his name. That sound rang through his head as he brought her to orgasm, his hips pumping in time with hers, cock dying to be where his fingers were. As her body stilled, he did the same with his mouth and hand, and sat up. He rubbed her legs, memorizing her expression. The cheek lit by the weak light was pink, and her lids were half shut. She looked dozy and dazed.