He brushed his thumb over the damp crotch of my underwear and I flinched again, but not as hard.
“Just…sensitive,” I said.
“I thought listening to you come was hot,” he told me, his thumb tracing circles and circles around that damp spot, making it grow.
“That’s the only time anyone’s ever touched me…while I did that.” The second the words were out of my mouth I realized how much I’d revealed. It’s as if I couldn’t help it with him; even as I tried to keep all my own secrets, I managed to let too many spill.
He cocked his head. “You’ve never come with anyone else?”
“No,” I breathed.
He pushed against me again, so hard I was amazed his jeans didn’t tear. “Then this is going to get much better. Put your arms around my neck.”
Carefully, as if he were a live bomb, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders. Shocks zipped between us as the storm outside electrified the air.
“I’m gonna kiss you,” he said. I felt my skin flush. I liked when he talked that way, the announcement before the act. I guess I had a thing for dirty talk, maybe from the phone calls. Or maybe that’s just what I liked and never knew it. Like black coffee.
“Yes,” I sighed and, slowly, carefully, he put his mouth—those beautiful lips—against mine.
He exhaled and I inhaled, breathing him in. I exhaled, he inhaled. He moaned against my mouth and I breathed that in, too.
As beautiful as those lips looked, they felt better. Infinitely better. The scar tissue at the edge of his mouth was harder skin than the rest of it. Just one of Dylan’s textures.
I had no experience with which to measure this kiss. It wasn’t as if Hoyt had never kissed me. He had. Perfunctory pecks that meant nothing, that felt like…nothing. That were as special as shoving my feet into shoes.
But this, this long, slow pressure. This sweet tasting. The careful breathing—it felt special. Like one kiss in a thousand. A million, maybe.
I reached up and touched his hair. It was silky between my fingers and he sighed against my lips, which I took to mean he liked it, so I ran my fingers through that hair. Up the back, past his scars toward his ears. Rough, then soft. And he pushed against me like a pet looking for more affection.
I smiled against his lips and gave him a good rub.
He grabbed the back of my neck, holding me still, and opened his mouth. His tongue touched my lips. I couldn’t quite swallow my gasp. Surprise and pleasure. His tongue slipped into my mouth. Intimate and invading. And for a moment I could just sit there, passive, and experience it. The slick slide against my own tongue. My teeth.
But then, very suddenly, it wasn’t enough. And I was struck with the very real fear that nothing was going to be enough with him. Not ever.
I could do every single sexual thing I’ve ever thought of and it wouldn’t be enough.
Starving for him, for what he could give me, I wrapped my arms hard around his neck and tilted my head, opening my mouth to accept him. To let him in. As far as he wanted to go.
Take it, I thought. Take me.
There was nothing careful anymore, nothing tentative. It was as if we’d both realized we were starving for the other. Like we wanted to devour each other. My lips ate at his, my tongue was in his mouth, and he pulled me even closer, until my arms and my legs were wrapped hard around him. He jerked me against him, even tighter. Even closer.
It was going to take an act of God to get me out of his arms.
His hands slipped down my back to my ass and he started to pull off that thin, little-girl underwear.
“Grab me,” I breathed against his mouth.
“What?”
“Grab me. Grab my ass.”
It was the thing with the stripper and I didn’t know if he’d remember. Or care.
But then he palmed my ass in his hands, gripping me hard. I pushed against him and he squeezed, lifting me, the tight elastic of my underwear cutting across his hands and my skin.