And I guess he had the same thought, because as I finished, as the waves of orgasm washed over me, he scooped me off my feet.
He carried me like I weighed nothing—like I wasn’t pushing 250, like I hadn’t hated myself for years, like I was just a dainty thing that deserved to be carried and cared for. I felt the warm light of the lamp in the bedroom, then my back was on the quilt, the warmth of his body gone.
He put one knee on the bed and leaned down and pressed his mouth to my left nipple through the lace.
I made a sound.
He did it to the right one.
I made another sound.
He took his time with it—his mouth hot through the thin fabric, his tongue tracing the edge of the lace, his teeth grazing lightly in a way that made my back arch completely off the quilt. My hands were in his hair again. His hands were on my waist, my hips, the curve of my stomach.
He reached back and unclipped my bra.
Pulled it off me.
Looked.
"Jesus," he said, low and rough. His hands came up and cupped my breasts and I felt his thumbs drag over my nipples and my back arched off the quilt involuntarily, chasing the pressure.
"Sensitive," he noted.
"Yes," I managed.
"Good." He bent down and took one nipple in his mouth—no lace this time, just his mouth, hot and wet—and sucked hard and I cried out and grabbed his hair with both hands.
"Gage—"
"I know." He moved to the other one. Did it again. "I know."
My hips were rolling against nothing. I was so wet I was embarrassed about it, wet enough that I could feel it on my thighs, and he hadn't even?—
He pulled back and looked at me. My chest heaving. My nipples slick and swollen. My hair everywhere. He was still fully dressed and I was just…I was amess.
"You're beautiful," he said, and I could feel that hemeant it.
He unbuttoned his shirt first, revealing that thick, dark chest hair dusted with silver…a chest with a few scars, broad shoulders, rugged and tan. He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders and all I could do was look, wait, imagine how it would feel totouch.
Then he reached for his belt.
I watched his hands.
Big hands. Calloused. Hands that knew how to work, knew how to hold things. The belt came free and he set it aside and unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down and I was staring and I did not care even a little bit.
The boxers went next.
Oh.
Oh…shit.
Thick and hard and flushed and big—genuinely, legitimately,oh godbig—and a drop of precome already at the tip and my mouth went wet even as the rest of me went dry because my body had apparently made several decisions without consulting me.
He wrapped one hand around himself. Slow stroke. Watching me watch him.
"This is what you do to me," he said.
Another stroke.
