He shifts to the side, his free hand skimming down my stomach. His hooded gaze follows his exploring hand, as if feel is not enough—he has to see too. The rough tip of a finger circles the skin around my belly button, and then he trails his fingers down my skin. All the tiny hairs over every inch of my skin, I swear to God, are now standing at attention. My breath catches and releases.
His fingers bump into the elastic of my panties. Skim back and forth, tracing the bare, sensitized skin bordering the edge, and it’s as if all that skin is brand-spanking new, feeling touch for the first time. His touch.
His gaze flips to mine. Even though I was pretty clear with the I want you thing, he seems to be checking in again. Which I appreciate. Which makes him all the hotter.
“Please,” I gasp.
His eyes flare, and he edges those warm fingers under the elastic, skimming, brushing. He probes through my trim curls until he reaches where I’m dying for him. His focus returns to his hand, and I watch—fascinated—as his arm muscles bunch and flex with the motions of his fingers. He gently plays with my clit, teasing it into a plumper, harder nub, and now I’m thrashing my legs, cuz Jeez.
Then—oh—he dips a blunt finger down and presses it inside, just a tad, finding me wet, and back up to my clit, slicking the evidence of my arousal around my swollen nub.
I shudder. “Conor.”
“Ah Jaysus, you’re so beautiful,” he rasps. “Feckin’ gorgeous.”
“More.” I arch against his hand. “Harder.”
He obliges, circling my clit and dipping, adding two fingers on the next venture.
I’m restless, and I want. But in order for me to be tough, I have to also be in control, and while I’m enjoying his ministrations, it’s making me panic and second guess myself.
And since he’s on his side, balancing the whole of his weight on an elbow, I’m easily able to flip him onto his back.
He chuckles and grasps my waist. “I was just getting started, yeah.”
“And now I want to get started.” I smile and ease down his body, and his eyes widen, hope and heat flaring in them.
Chapter 10
Claire
One of Conor’s hands clutches my shoulder, holding on, but the other slaps the edge of the couch as I edge down his body, my lips brushing down his torso. His fingers curl around the cushion and grip, as if he’s gotta hold on. Playing cards cascade down and bounce onto the floor.
The scent of our arousal fills the room, mixing with the strawberry aroma of the candles. And because the power outage knocked out the A/C, a light sheen of sweat films our flushed skin.
When my lips reach his belly button, I graze it with the flat of my tongue. His whole body tenses.
But his grip remains on my shoulder and the couch, and he doesn’t push.
I trace one of the V’s angling down to his magnificent package. And then along the other seam. He tastes clean and salty and delicious. Mmmm. I take a moment to savor the flavors on my tongue.
God, whenever he was shirtless on the field and reached up to stretch, or run his hand through his hair, I saw this V, and I was always dying, dying, to do this. Lick it. Learn the different flavors of his skin on my tongue. Explore where it led. And now… I’m doing it.
His engorged cock lies heavy against his stomach, as if the V perfectly frames it.
I touch my tongue to the thick base and lave up its length to the tip. He pushes up his hips, his ab muscles tightening with the movement and his tension.
“Fuck, loveen,” he gasps.
I lick the hood and then along the crease, lapping up the pre-cum. I cradle his balls, playing their delicate weight between my fingers, and then grip the base of his cock. I watch his reactions, adjusting my grip, and tug. He’s more sensitive than I’m used to—the slightest pressure makes him curse and tense and shudder.
Jesus, that’s hot as hell. My core clenches, aching for his fullness. I shift, lift his cock, and swallow the first inch and suck back up. Normally, I don’t find giving head enjoyable—it’s just something I do to please my bed partner. I might like to be in control, but I’m not selfish with my bed partners. And while that’s all well and good, it doesn’t usually turn me on.
Until now. And it’s clear from his reactions that he’s enjoying it. I discover a rhythm with my hand and mouth that elicits the most vocal reaction—the word “fuck” coming out on a soft grunt every time I suck back up to the tip.
And for the first time, I find myself wanting to make him come in my mouth. Normally, I don’t let that happen.
On the next suck, my mouth is suddenly empty of him. What—?
I’m airborne. Conor’s hands are clamped around my waist, dragging me up, and I slap my palms against the soft nap of the carpet to get balance. He arches up and hungrily starts kissing the hell out of me. I’m kinda draped randomly against him, so I readjust until I’m gliding my core up and down his length, the wetness from my mouth and from my panties quickly soaking the fabric. The rhythm matches the mating of our tongues.
Unable to wait any longer to feel him against me, I rest my weight on one hand, lift up, and grab the elastic of my underwear. But before I can remove them, his hand is there, and he grips the fabric. He tugs, jerking my hips to the side. He grunts, yanks again, and a tearing sound fills the room.
Holy shit. He just ripped my panties off.
I thought that only happened in books.
“Tell me you have a condom,” I ask.
“Yeah. Rucksack. Side pocket. Inside an Altoids tin.”
I push upward and slap around behind me. A hand cups my breast, and I’m patting around more urgently. I spy a dark pile of clothing on top of his duffel, and I drag it toward me. I shove the clothes off and search in his side pocket.
All the while, his hands are busy massaging my breasts or pressing against my clit and circling. Which is making my body shake and vibrate and my search harder.
Where is—? I pull the duffel onto his belly, blocking his access to me.
“Whatcha!” he grumps.
“You want to get it on, don’t you?”
“Fuck, yeah.”
I laugh. “Then patience, big boy.”
I snag the tin and shove the duffel to the side. He grabs it from my hands, flicks it open, and pulls out a foil. He rips it open and fishes out the condom. I move my hips to free him, but I also snatch the condom away.
I want to roll it on myself.
“You like taking charge, do you now?” he says on a laugh.
I don’t answer, I’m too focused on my goal: sheathing his hard girth. And getting him inside me.
When he’s completely covered—God, he’s huge—I brace my hands on his muscular chest. I look up at him.
“Ready?”
“C’mere to me,” he groans.
He grabs hold of himself, and I let the fat tip edge inside. We both tense and pull in a sharp breath.
With how much the crown is stretching me, it confirms that he’s going to be the biggest guy I’ve ever taken inside me. A dull ache pounds there, screaming to allow his hot length to spread me wide, to feel all of him inside me.
But I want to control this encounter. It’s the first, and maybe the only time, I’ll feel Conor fill me. All this masculine hotness. And even if somehow we do this again, this will always be the first time.
And so I don’t want to rush. I want to feel his texture, feel his heat, feel the stretch, feel him fully seated.