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“You’re good at this,” he says, his body fully relaxed under my touch. The trust he’s placed in me to take care of him in this intimate way is even more of a turn-on.
“It would be better if I had oil or something.”
His eyelids lazily lift—“I can’t imagine anything feeling better than this”—then drift shut again, his dark lashes standing out clearly against his fair cheeks.
There’s one other technique I still want to try.
“Elliot,” I whisper, not wanting to break his reverie. “I need to move again so I can go up and down your spine.”
He nods and hums assent without opening his eyes.
He doesn’t look like he’s about to make any more straddle jokes, so I lift one leg back over him, settling a knee on either side of his hips. If I lowered myself, I’d sit on the firm mound of butt I’ve been trying to keep my eyes from this whole time.
My legs astride him, the air hits my crotch, making the dampness cool against my skin. What would it be like to lower myself and kiss my way up the central dip of his back? Would my mouth be more healing than my hands? My lips tingle at the thought.
Stop it.
Instead, I stay up on my knees and press my thumbs along his spine just above his boxers. But I know I need to start lower. My pulse increases. I should ask permission to pull his shorts down a little. But I don’t want to disturb him or shatter the spell.
I drag my thumbs lower, hooking them under the waistband. It’s all I can do to suppress the gasp threatening to escape. Just that tiny action of dropping my thumbs below the edge of his underwear turns on a throb in my core. There’s a need I never knew I had deep within me. A need to touch this man, a need to have more than just my hands against his bare body. A need to have his hands on me too, his fingers feeling how wet he’s made me.
My thumbs now at the very base of his spine, I heave in a long, slow breath and focus with all my might on his skin rippling under the pressure as I slide them up on either side of his backbone. When I reach halfway, he silently arches against me, giving in to the sensation.
I repeat the action, hooking my thumbs low under his waistband, then sliding them up his back until they disappear under the edge of his T-shirt.
As I go back to the base of his spine and make my way up for the third time, Elliot slides one arm from over his head and down the bed until he reaches my calf and rests just the tips of his fingers on it.
A shudder ripples up my side from his touch, goosebumps visible on my bare thigh.
What the hell is he doing? Why is he touching me?
“Don’t stop,” he breathes.
I hadn’t realized I’d paused right in the center of his back, my eyes glued to his fingers on my leg, my breath halted.
“It feels so good,” he says.
I need to stop this. I have to stop now. It’s already gone too far. This was supposed to be purely a practical need for me to touch him, to help him get upright enough to take care of the business of the day. He’s not supposed to be touching me as well.
I might not know why his hand is on my leg, but I do know that every part of me yearns for him to slide it higher, for him to stroke my thigh, to find his way under my shirt and into my underwear.
And every part of that yearning is completely unacceptable. I lift my hands off his back. They hover in midair, unsure what to do with themselves. I certainly don’t have any advice for them. All I know is, that I need to get off him, get off the bed, but I can’t pull myself away.
Beneath me, Elliot slowly, gingerly rotates himself between my legs. His hand falls from my calf as he makes his way onto his side. Then he eases himself onto his back, his eyes closed as he concentrates on moving without causing himself pain.
My gaze drops to his crotch, which is now right between my legs. There in his boxer shorts is a long, girthy shape. I never imagined he’d be this big. Or that I’d find out what size he is at all. Or that I’d be looking down at it between my legs. But there it is—Elliot Dashwood’s rock-hard penis. Right there.
My hot, throbbing center screams to be lowered onto him, to feel his hardness against my slick core.
“Sorry about that,” he whispers.
His eyes are open now. He’s seen me look at him.
Realizing my arms are still extended in front of me, like I’m an incredibly turned on zombie, I drop them to my sides and clutch the only thing I have to hold onto—my T-shirt.
Elliot reaches down, places a hand on each of my knees, and slowly, oh-so-achingly slowly, strokes his fingers up my outer thighs.
“What you were doing felt so good.” His voice is heavy. “And I was desperate to touch you.” His heart visibly pounds under his shirt. “I’d like to make you feel good too.”
