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And then he’s kissing me again, like he can’t get enough. One hand glides over my throat, finds my breast, his palm passing so lightly over the tight tip, sending that spark of pleasure along the cord drawn taut between my nipple and my clit. I must whimper or groan or move against him because he does it again, just as lightly, and then he pulls up my tank and strokes circles around my breast, teasing but not reaching my nipple while he kisses and kisses me like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted.
The circles never quite arrive at where I want to be touched, and it’s making me desperate. I press myself against him, trying to get purchase, trying to get friction. I find his cock with my hip and push, and he pushes back, thrusting, lifting me against the door and fitting himself to the notch between my legs, thrusting again?—
“God, Shane.”
“Ivy.”
“I—”
“I know,” he says, echoing me earlier.
Then he’s setting me on my feet and kneeling, pulling my shorts down but leaving my underwear. He bends and kisses me, and my body jerks with pleasure.
“I love how sensitive you are.”
“Not for everyone.”
“Love that even more,” he says.
It’s the third time he used that word, and I will not read anything into it; this is just sex, just pleasure, just temporary—but I do love that I’ve made him sloppy with his language.
He bites and licks me through my underwear, and then he tugs them down, spreads me, and puts his mouth over me. And oh my God. The heat, the swirl of his tongue, the occasional purposeful bite of his teeth…
And then his attention is right on my clit, focused, certain, one hand holding me open for his feasting, the other reaching up to play with a nipple, and he pushes me right over the edge into whimpering, weeping, yelling, thigh-shaking, core-spasming pleasure.
27
Shane
She digs her fingers into my scalp and calls my name, clenching around my fingers, and I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on not coming all over myself. “It’s so, so good,” she cries, but she doesn’t have to say it because it’s so fucking obvious and because it’s that good for me, too—just seeing her like this, destroyed by pleasure.
When she starts to come down, I tug her shorts and underwear back up, scoop her up and carry her into the living room and deposit her on the couch, and she leans her head back and lies there, boneless, for a moment. Then she slides off the couch, kneels on the floor, and says, “This time you’re letting me touch you.”
She’s not going to get an argument from me. I’m so hard it hurts, and she’s already reaching for my belt buckle. Her fingers look small next to its bulk, and for some reason just that makes me harder. I watch her work it carefully through, and seriously, this woman could do just about anything and it would make me think about sex. She gets the buckle undone, grazing her knuckles over the swell of my cock in my jeans, and it surges under her touch.
A moment later she has me in her hand, and now I’ve got it, why the small fingers got me going: it’s the way they don’t quite close all the way around me and the way she looks at me when she realizes it.
“I’ll go easy on you.”
Her eyelids flutter. “Please don’t,” she says.
Jesus. “Ivy.”
“You know what I like,” she says.
“I guess I do.”
And I guess I like it, too.
Her hand grips me—tight, a little rough, just the way I want it. When was the last time someone did this? It makes me think about movie theaters and back seats of cars and high school.
“Look at me,” I command, and she does. Her lips are puffy and pink from our kissing. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide from coming against my tongue. Her hand works over my cock, pausing so she can smooth precum over the head, rubbing the sensitive spot right below. She never takes her eyes off mine, and I get to watch the pink rise in her face, the dark flare in her eyes because she likes it, she likes touching me, she likes watching the reflection in my face of her pleasure. It’s like we’re climbing together, and just before I blow all over her hand, before I make a mess of both of us, I reach down, slide my hand into her shorts, and take her over the edge with me.
We watch each other’s faces all the way through it, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever done.
Once we’ve cleaned ourselves up, she climbs back onto the couch next to me and rests her head in the crook of my shoulder. “Hey,” she says, and I’m not too big a man to admit it—I have a moment of ice-cold fear. That she’s going to say, I think you should leave. Or That was a mistake. And maybe it’s just sex hormones, but right now, it would feel like a slug to the gut.
But that’s not what she says. She says, “I never watched the end of the second Crown of Spires movie.”
