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He doesn’t break away when his hips roll against mine, and I swallow the groan that travels up from his gut. I’m in heaven, or at least I think I am, then his hands get involved, one tangled in my hair and the other fishing for the hem of my sleep tank.
Warm rough fingers tease the side of my breast for mere seconds before he pulls his mouth away only long enough to pull the fabric over my head and toss it to the floor. His eyes never open. He never looks down at me, never searches my eyes for answers, but when he lowers his lips to the tip of my breast, I forget to wonder what that really means.
I don’t have the ability to worry that we haven’t talked, that we haven’t discussed what trouble doing this could cause. I’m not concerned about the repercussions right now. The only thing I can focus on is his expert mouth on my breast and biting my lip so I don’t hiss too loud, afraid to break the trance we both seem to have woken up in.
The time spent on my breast is limited, a tease of the most erotic kind as distraction draws him lower. The rough stubble on his face abrades the skin of my lower stomach, his tongue dipping into my belly button to tease the jewelry there, his teeth nipping at the skin on my hip.
I’m slick with arousal, ready for any suggestion the man could make, but he isn’t asking, isn’t giving options. We both know what’s going to happen, and this isn’t a multiple-choice question. I lift my hips in permission when his fingers twist in the fabric at my sides. The silk sleep shorts and lace underwear disappear with practiced ease. Wide shoulders spread my legs, and only then do his eyes flutter open for the briefest of seconds before he lowers his mouth, sweeping his scorching hot tongue up the length of me.
I bite my fist to keep from screaming, my head angled down so I can watch in awe as he brings me to the brink of release in mere seconds. A commando, covered head to toe in muscles and perfectly tanned skinned with an Olympic Gold talented tongue? Deacon Black is every woman’s perfect package rolled up in one man.
He groans, diving in and using most of his lower face to bring me pleasure. The tip of his nose brushes my clit while his tongue works magic on my slit, the scruff on his chin teasing even lower. I want to warn him, let him know I’m only a few short strokes from falling over the edge, but he pulls away, nipping at my inner thigh before tracing the line at my hip with his tongue.
I want to grip the sides of his face or grip his hair with my fingers and insist he continue, but my mouth is dry, words on the tip of my tongue but refusing to form as he works his way back up my body.
His lips brush mine, the taste of my own arousal clinging to his lips as he rolls his hips. I don’t know when he shoved his boxer briefs down, but the heat of his erection is right where it’s meant to be, and a groan of pleasure rumbles in my ear as he pushes forward. My head snaps back, throat and back arching as he enters me.
I’m lost, unsure of what to do other than take exactly what he’s giving, but my fingernails dig into the skin of his taut muscled back, a warning to take things slow because he’s on the brink of being too much.
He must understand my warning because he ceases all motion except for biting the skin on my exposed neck. One hand is on my throat, his thumb applying pressure under my chin as he nips at the delicate skin there. The other is tangled in my hair, the bite of pain from the pull managing to increase my desire for him. My legs spread wider, hips opening up as I settle my ankles on his upper thighs, and it allows him to sink even deeper. Another whimper escapes my mouth, but he doesn’t move, other than his mouth working against my neck.
When my fingers relax on his skin, he moves. First one slow stroke forward and back, and then another. The third takes my breath away, but he breathes life back into me when he presses his forehead to mine. His eyes are still closed, squeezed tight, jaw ticking as if he’s in pain.
“Dea—”
Before I can even say his name, before I can beg him to open his eyes and see me, he draws back, and I’m bereft with him gone. I know what he’s going to say, and deep down if I focus on something other than the pleasure he’s been giving me, I know it’ll be the truth. We shouldn’t be doing this. Having sex, no matter how unemotional it is, shouldn’t be happening. But he doesn’t jump off the bed as if he just realized what he’s been doing. He flips me over, lifting my ass into the air and tangling his fingers back in my hair before plowing forward again.
