I kissed him, nibbling on his bottom lip before tasting him, before feeling the warmth of him envelope me. He responded to my kiss with just as much passion, just as much pent up desire as he had before. And his hands felt so right as he guided my movements, as he slid his bare hand under my borrowed sweater and explored my bare back.
Sometimes, late at night, I remembered our touches. I remembered the way he kissed me, the way his hands felt when they dared to slip under my shirt. I remembered how sweet it was, the way he hesitated before doing something we hadn’t done before. Any other boy would have done what he wanted and asked permission later. But not Donovan. And that’s how I knew that Donovan was more than just another teenage crush, a puppy love that would die with the test of time.
I should have remembered that.
He sat up and tugged me into his lap. I straddled his thighs, my hands moving over the perfect egg shape of his head, over his shoulders. I loved the feel of his bare skin, the taste of it when I nibbled at his chin, when I ran my tongue over the stubble dotting his wide jaw. And his hands, those beautiful hands, sliding over my belly and up, taking whole handfuls of my breasts, squeezing them just enough to send shivers of pleasure through my entire body.
Was it possible to want someone this much? Was it really possible to need someone as much as I needed him right now? I couldn’t breathe; I wanted his touch that much. I almost cried out in relief when his hand slid down my belly, when his fingers slipped inside my delicate little panties.
But then he was picking me up, carrying me through the tiny house. I moaned in protest, but he ignored me and nibbled at my throat. And when we were in the bedroom, he snagged the bottom edge of the sweater and tore it from me as I fell back onto the bed. There was hunger in his eyes as he studied me. And then he was tugging at the snap on his jeans as he climbed onto the bed with me. I slid my hand inside the space he created when he undid his jeans and gripped him through those boxer briefs he was so fond of. He moaned against my mouth, as he stole another kiss before stepping away again.
He hooked his fingers under the sides of my panties and pulled them slowly from my body. I twisted a little on the bed, covering myself with my hands and my thighs as he bent to tug that flimsy material from my toes. He watched me for a second, running his hand gently over my ass. And then his pants were gone and his underwear hit the floor as he climbed back onto the bed behind me.
He peppered my shoulder with kisses, his arm slipping around my waist and tugging me back. I leaned back and stole another kiss, our tongues dancing as his fingers sought the prize I still held under my hands. I could feel him, feel every inch of him pressed against me; I could feel the barely controlled urgency that was hidden in his gentle touch. But then his hand was on my thigh, tugging my leg up over his thighs and his thickness was pressed against me, against that place that needed him so desperately.
I closed my eyes, a soundless moan trying to slip from between my lips. He moved painfully slow, coming inside of me by inches, waiting for my body to open to him, to welcome him to where he belonged. I pushed my hips against him, tugging his arm up against my chest, holding on to him like a lifesaver in the middle of the sea. Pleasure rocked through me, pleasure that was so unique and so rare that my body wanted to hold onto it for as long as possible.
And then he was there, he was inside of me, his breathing harsh against my ear. We lay still, both of us afraid of moving, of breaking this spell. But then he couldn’t help himself. He began to rock against me, his mouth buried against my shoulder to stop the noises he so desperately wanted to make. And I was pushing back against him, grinding my body against his, needing that pressure, needing that release. And it was there. I could feel it so close that it was like mirage in the desert. It couldn’t possibly be that easy. Couldn’t possibly be that perfect.
Just when I thought it couldn’t be any better, he pressed a single fingertip against that one place that had the power to send me over the cliff as if I was dropped from a helicopter. He rubbed my clit with just the right amount of pressure. Not too hard. Not to gentle. And the waves began, coursing through me like electricity following a current.
I don’t think I’ve ever experienced an orgasm quite like that. But again, it probably didn’t count when most of the orgasms you ever experienced came from your own hand.
I was still riding the wave when Donovan could no longer contain his moans, when he pressed himself as deep against me as he could and began to ride a wave of his own.
He was my first. But I never thought we’d find our way back to one another.
This sure complicated things. But I was riding a wave.
Chapter 14