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Why did his kisses have to be so intoxicating?
They weren’t even deep kisses, just soft brushes of his lips against mine. Teasing little caresses that made my brain shut down and my stomach tighten while my core flooded with liquid heat that had my hips inching forward, wanting that same contact as Friday night. That same pressure right in my center.
What had he asked?
Would I test this theory with him?
I didn’t know if I could, but his kisses made it impossible to think beyond the next sensation. The tingle of my skin as his breath caressed over my cheek. The sound of his exhale at my ear. The press of his fingers into my flesh. The scent of his body wash when I buried my face in his neck and gave his lips access to the tender spot where my shoulder and neck met.
“Trust me,” he rasped against my skin. “Let me show you there is nothing to be afraid of.”
I barely had enough brain power to nod, and then he was lifting me from the counter. My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct alone, and he carried me into the living room. He sat, with me still wrapped around him, and kissed me again. This one wasn’t nearly as soft as the others, but they went straight to my head, making me dizzy from how delicious they were.
His hands stroked up and down my sides, his thumbs brushing over the sides of my breasts through my sleep shirt, making me acutely aware I wasn’t wearing a bra. With my legs still wrapped around his waist, my core was exposed. My thin pajama pants, minus panties beneath, offered little protection from the massive bulge now pressed against my center through his jeans.
Between his kisses, his caressing hands, and his hardness flexing against me, I didn’t know what to focus on more. My entire body was burning, and I wasn’t sure how I wasn’t already a pile of ash in his lap.
I pressed my hips down, seeking deeper contact with his bulge, and we both groaned. Lifting his head, he caught my ass in both his hands, pressing me closer. “Does that feel good?”
Still gasping for breath, all I could do was nod.
His fingers squeezed, massaging each handful. “Are you starting to ache?” I nodded again. “No, Ro. Give me the words. Tell me, are you starting to ache?”
“Y-Yes,” I moaned.
“Where?”
“You know where,” I panted.
“Show me,” he commanded.
“Here.” I ground my drenched core into him. There was no way he couldn’t tell just how wet I was. My pajama pants were already soaked.
“That feels so damn good, baby,” he growled, his head falling onto the back of the couch, his eyes closing to half-mast.
“Sin,” I whined, wanting his lips back on me, his hands teasing my breasts again.
“I know, sweet girl, but you’re the one in control here.” His hands fell away from my ass. “Rub against me. Make yourself come like this.”
Even though my core was its own inferno, need and want gnawing at me like a nagging hunger, I hesitated. I thrived in the spotlight, but right then, I knew what stage fright was. I felt clumsy, my hips suddenly not sure what to do.
I pressed my hands to his chest as embarrassment began to replace my need.
I didn’t want to be in control. Sicko Stan always made me be the one to touch him, the one who “initiated” everything. And back then, to my innocent mind, he was able to use that against me. If I touched him first, then I was the one who wanted it. It meant I wanted him to touch me.
It took a lot of therapy before I understood just how twisted up he had made me about sex and control.
“Ro?” Sin’s head lifted, his eyes scanning my face.
My lashes lowered so he couldn’t see the sudden tears that were stinging my eyes. “I-I liked it better when you were kissing me,” I whispered.
“Yeah?” He cupped my chin. “Just when I was kissing you, or was it when I was the one in control?”
“Both.”
His fingers threaded through my hair, tightening at the roots. “Is that what you want? For me to kiss you and make you feel good? You want me to touch you, sweet girl?”
I nodded, still keeping my lashes lowered.
