“Unbutton your pants.”
The way he said it, as if there was no question of obedience, as if it was my job because his hands were busy with my tits, sent my fingers to my waistband. I undid my pants.
“Slide them down, sweetapples.”
I was already halfway off the stool when he asked that.
No. He didn’t ask.
He’d stated a fact. I slid off the stool and pushed the waistband down as far as my arms would reach. He leaned back, his gaze taking me in, face to tits to my panties.
“You’re so fucking sexy, and you don’t even know it.” He slipped his hands between my legs, inside my thighs, to my soaked white underwear. His finger hooked the crotch and made room to get to my center.
“Oh, God.”
“I’m not going to eat your * tonight. I’m going to make you wait. But you’re going to see me. You’re going to let me take you out. And after that, I’m going to lay you in my bed, and this here?” He brushed his finger along my clit.
I exploded. He owned me. He could do whatever he wanted. When he brushed the finger back, I was so close to orgasm in two strokes.
“I’m going to suck on it, and then I’m putting my tongue right here.” He slid two fingers inside me. “You’re so wet. Wait. Wait until I take this with my mouth.”
He drew his fingers over my clit again. I was so close and not there yet. As if he knew, he slowed down.
My fingers dug into his shoulders. “Dash, I… God, I—”
“Do you want to come?”
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
“So bad. Please. I’ll see you. I want to.”
He put two fingers on my clit and shifted them just enough to take my breath away. “There’s going to be a lot of fucking and sucking.”
“Okay. Yes.”
“You want that.”
“Let me come. I want it,” I begged.
“I call the shots. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“You’re so fucking hot.” With that reminder, he flicked my clit, stroked me back to front, and brought his fingers back to my swollen nub and pinched it.
I buckled as if my skin had been pulled taut, mind broken, body transcending all pain, all pleasure. I cried a long call to the kitchen counter, the stove, the tiles under my toes. I didn’t even realize he was holding me up with his free hand or that he was sucking on a nipple. The tornado of release had whipped away my consciousness and littered the landscape with its shredded pieces.
Dash Wallace, who could leap ten feet for a line drive and hit anything thrown at him, who was a mysterious and graceful figure in a billion-dollar sport, had given me the orgasm of my life.
He took his mouth off me, removed his hand from my pants, and showed me his wet fingers.
“You are not gross.” He put his middle finger in his mouth and pulled it out with a pop. “Your body is nectar to me. Taste it.”
He laid his index finger on my lower lip, and I opened my mouth. He slid it along my tongue. The taste of me was pungent but clear. Bright. Tart. Not terrible. Not gross. Kind of nice.
“That’s what I’m going to taste when I eat your *.”
I puckered my lips around his fingers as he drew them out.
I didn’t do things like that. I wasn’t repressed exactly. I just wasn’t sensual or confident. I wasn’t kinky or experimental. I liked being on the bottom, and I didn’t talk much during sex or ask for what I wanted. If you had told me a month ago that I was going to let a man put his fingers on my * then in my mouth, I would have made a lemon-face. But I wanted those fingers. It felt good to suck them and see the way he clamped his jaw tight and breathed through his teeth.
“I like you, Dash,” I said when his fingers were out. “But I have to be honest. You scare me.”
He straightened, making sure I didn’t fall. He put his arms around my waist and pulled up my pants. “You don’t scare me.”
I buttoned myself up. Reality pushed against the walls of my fading orgasm. He’d opened me as if I had a latch and hinges. If I’d known he could do that, I would have run down that hill so fast the sidewalk would have broken under my feet. If I’d known he’d expose me so definitively and, with his warmth and gentleness, make me all right with it, I would have stood stock still at the front door and not known what to do. None of this was what I had expected. He was supposed to be a cavalier jerk. He wasn’t.
“All right,” I said, having thought it through at the worst time and in the worst way possible. “But I want to warn you I’m not cynical or casual. If I start to…” I searched for the words, and they were all too loaded or too cold. None accurately described the breadth of my fear. “If I start to have feelings or if you’re careless with me, I’m cutting it short. Just for self-preservation.”
“You’re risk-averse.” He gently pulled down my shirt.
“Yeah. Also, I know what we just did, but no guarantees on the first date.”