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Before I can turn back, his mouth is on my neck again, his hands tugging my First Byte T-shirt out of my jeans.
I’m taken aback by his urgency. But my desperation matches his. All the pent-up feelings of the last two weeks and the years before, feelings I didn’t even realize existed, come to the surface not with a simmer, but with a wild, raging boil.
I gasp as his fingers slip under my shirt and settle against my back.
“I like that sound,” he says, sliding down my body and planting his lips on my sensitive bare midriff.
“You’ll hear plenty more of it if you do that.” I writhe beneath him, the touch of his mouth, the tickle of his tongue, the heat of his breath on my skin setting every nerve on full alert.
I don’t know how he does it, but suddenly the hand that held me has disappeared and the shirt covers my face before he pulls it off over my head.
His face is between my breasts, his lips dropping butterfly kisses just above the cups of my bra.
“Then I’d do something I’ve thought about for years.” He slides his hands around my back, unhooks my bra, and pulls it off. “You have no idea how many times I’ve wondered what your nipples taste like.”
Judging by the groan, I’m guessing it’s good. If it’s anything like the way his mouth feels on me as he twirls his tongue and sucks and nibbles my breast, it’s spectacular.
I’ve never felt as desired in my life as I do right now. Never felt anyone want me this badly, crave me so deeply. I sink my fingers into his hair as I give myself to him, not wanting him to stop, but also yearning for his mouth to go lower and lower.
As he moves to give my other nipple the same breathtaking treatment, he takes hold of both my hands, lacing his fingers with mine, and slowly slides them higher and higher until they rest on the pillow over my head.
When he lets one hand go, I push my fingers back through his hair.
“No,” he says against my breast, then takes my arm and puts it back over my head where he holds my wrists together with his other hand.
I didn’t think it was possible for my nipple to get harder, for my entrance to be wetter, for me to even like him doing that.
An ex-boyfriend held my hands down once, and I hated the domination of it so much I made him promise to never do it again.
But this queen of planning and scheduling and control finds moving from a gentle kiss to completely giving herself over to Elliot to be not only the easiest and most natural thing in the world, but the most incredible clit-throbbing turn-on.
He lifts his head and looks down at me—lips full, eyes needy.
“Can I touch you?” Even while holding my wrists over my head, Elliot Dashwood is well mannered. “I really want to touch you.”
He glides his hand across my belly, his fingers teasing under the waistband of my jeans.
“Hell, yes,” I pant. “If you don’t, I might explode.”
“Explode is exactly what I’m going for.” He pops the button, slides down the zipper, and inches his fingers lower and lower until they’re under the edge of my Jockey hipsters.
His eyes lock onto mine, no glass barrier between us. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”
His fingers creep lower still.
There’s no scale to measure the want in Elliot’s face, the desire radiating from him. Even if there were, he’d break it, smash it to smithereens, and blow the pieces into outer space.
“I have some idea.” I squeeze out the words through breathy pants.
His fingers find my clit, forcing a deep, lusty sigh from my lungs and a spasm through my body that arches my back and makes my fingers curl against the hand that has a gentle but firm hold on my wrists.
After making several tantalizing circles, he moves lower still and finds my center.
“Christ, you’re wet,” he says, his eyes still on mine.
“That’s how much I want you.” And oh, holy shit, do I want this man.
To hell with my plan to just be friends. God knows what will happen after this, but for once in my life I’m living in the moment—this ecstasy-filled, lust-fueled moment—with no schedule for what happens after it.
