I don’t know what is under her shirt, but seeing the expensive thong as it is unveiled, the familiar style, knowing my name is against her skin—it does something to my heart. It’s not just mine, it’s ours, our labor of love, our late nights, our arguments, our passion. I spread her knees and settle in between her legs, my hands sliding up her thighs, toward the black triangle of lace. I run a reverent hand over the delicate material, tracing the details of it and then down, in between her beautiful legs. I lower my mouth to the lace and follow the path of my fingers, planting soft kisses from her hips to her mound, and I breathe in the scent of her, my tongue moving over the lines of the thong, teasing her through the fabric, a small whimper of pleasure coming from her as I hit her most sensitive places. She curves beneath me, and I hold her in place, supporting her up against my mouth, as I pull the thong aside and fully reveal her.
I’ve gone down on countless women. I’ve never tasted a woman I didn’t enjoy, and I’ve never met a pussy that didn’t make me hard. But Kate … I don’t have words for the feelings I have when she is open before me, her thighs twisting nervously, the thin strip of her hair wet and matted with her juices, all of her exposed. I take a moment, my finger rubbing softly across her, and I look up, watching her mouth open as I gently roll the pad of my thumb over her clit, her body curving for more, her pelvis tilting, like an offering to the gods. I bend down and feast.
chapter 19
Her
The light from the fire makes him glow, a god with strong shoulders and muscular arms that pin me down as his gorgeous profile bends over me, worshiping my pussy with his tongue, his jaw flexing, the soft movement of his tongue tasting me in ways that are destroying my thoughts, my resolve, my sanity. God, all of the things I have envisioned, all of the talents I have imagined—every time that tongue peeked out of his mouth, every time I caught a glimpse of it—all my fantasies have fallen short to this, the look of him, the feel of him. He pushes his tongue inside of me and all thought stops, his fingers digging into the cheeks of my ass, his mouth as aggressive as his touch. I don’t need to wonder how I taste, or if he is enjoying this. I close my eyes, release every inhibition, and let his tongue destroy my senses.
When I come, it is the kind of orgasm that changes lives. The kind where my nails scrape his scalp, my feet flex through the open air, and my scream is so loud it is silent. I scramble for footing, for reality, and in the hundredth call of his name, I tell him I love him.
He pulls me to the floor, my limbs loose and free, and I watch as he removes his underwear, his cock bobbing free.
Good Lord. And I thought he was sexy before.
I reach for him, and he lifts and positions me carefully on the floor. “Are you comfortable?” he asks, and I nod, his rug the impossibly soft type that you want to burrow into, one I have spent nights on before, but always in pajamas and never like this—never with the firelight flickering off his torso as he crawls above me, his mouth dropping to mine, and we kiss, this one different than the first, this one gentle and sweet, him tasting slightly of chocolate, each meeting of our tongues stirring my arousal, waking up my limbs, and I prop myself up on my elbows and reach for his neck, the drug of my orgasm wearing off, my body needing another hit.
Our tempo increases, layers of control shed as I tug at his head, our kiss deepening, his hips lowering. I wrap my legs around him, and a groan rumbles against my mouth, his bare cock hard against his stomach, and when he drags it over my damp panties, my sensitive clit, I gasp against his kiss. He pushes off his hands and sits back on his heels. In one quick movement, he grabs my legs and pulls me flush against his thighs, his hands reaching forward, and gripping the open neck of my flannel shirt, buttons popping and threads ripping.
A growl tears from his throat when he sees the matching balconet bra, the one from last season, his eyes scanning over my chest. He slides his palms up my stomach and over the swell of the sheer cups, all lace and underwire, his hands squeezing, fingers pulling at the top of it. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, and it is a moment of calm, a moment where his gaze drags over me, from knee to face, and our eyes meet and I’ve never felt so safe, so cherished, so beautiful. He swallows, and there is a catch to his words when he speaks. “I’ve always worn a condom. Every time. Always.” His eyes drop, and I tighten my legs at the vulnerability that crosses his face. “But with you, I can’t—I mean, I can, if it would make you—”
“I trust you.” My eyes drop to his cock and I can’t believe I’m actually seeing it, the most private piece of him, the beauty of its thick shaft, its lines and cuts, the twitch of it as I watch. I wet my lips. “Please. I need you.”