I cross to the bed in three strides, then lower her down my body so we’re standing beside it. I waste no time yanking my T-shirt over my head. With her clothes, I want to take my time, but I don’t have the patience for mine.
“You have more tattoos,” she murmurs, trailing her fingers over the tribal pattern that wraps around my left shoulder.
I’m toying with her strap of her tank top and thesilky bra strap peeking out from under it as I answer. “You didn’t notice them last night?”
“They were mostly covered by your vest. And I think I was distracted.” She reaches out a hesitant hand and trails her fingers over my skin. “Will you tell me what they mean?”
“Those I got when I was young. So mostly they meant that I was an angry little shit who wanted to pick fights with anyone who disapproved of me.”
She chuckles at that, but I hear the nervousness underneath.
I tip her chin up so she has to look at me. “Hey, Khaleesi, you staling?”
She looks up at me, nibbling on her lower lip in that way she does when she’s contemplating a problem. “It’s occurred to me that you might have certain expectations regarding my grooming.”
I stare blankly until she looks down pointedly.
“I just need you to know that I’m not a waxer. According to studies, women who groom excessively are more likely to have recurrent UTIs and I?—”
Laughing, I pick her and toss her into the middle of her bed, before following her down. I lower my body onto hers, caging her head with my arms.
I shouldn’t laugh, because I know she’s serious. But it’s also just the most Tavey thing ever. And even if I still had doubts, that alone would have knockedthem out. But I don’t. I have no doubts. I’m completely gone for this woman.
“I’ve adjusted my expectations accordingly. But just to be clear, any fantasies I’ve had about your pussy are based on the fact that it’s yours.”
I skim a hand up her ribs, nudging the hem of her tank top up, relishing the feel of her skin under my fingertips. I bury my face in her neck, relishing the scent of her. I taste her. I nibble. I try not to devour.
“You’ve done that?” she asks on an arching gasp.
“Done what?” I ask, kissing my way down her chest, hovering over her breast, pressing my teeth into her flesh through the fabric of her bra and tank.
“Had fantasies about my pussy?”
That word on her lips—pussy—sends a shudder of need through me.
From anyone else, it’s just a word. From her, it feels like an invitation.
“Yeah,” I murmur against her skin. I want to look at her, to gauge her reaction to my admission, but I can’t. If I do, I know I’ll lose it. I can’t look her in the eye and tell her all the things I’ve imagined doing to her. With her.
Not yet. Not when my control is already this thin.
So instead, I skim my hand down to the hem ofher skirt, bunching it up in my hand until it’s at her waist. I feel the warmth of her midriff beneath my fingers. The bone of her hip beneath my hand. The soft cotton of her panties.
I slid my thumb under the fabric. I find the curls she was worried I wouldn’t like. I find the heat of her. The wetness of her. I feel how ready she is. How much she wants me.
This time, it’s my turn to shudder. I press my hard cock against her thigh because I need the pressure, and I don’t want to take my hands off her long enough to give my dick a stroke.
I angle up onto an elbow so that I can look at her. “Here’s what I need you to do, Khaleesi.” My thumb finds her clit. Strokes it. Circles. Dips back to the moisture, then strokes it again. “I need you to come. Quickly, if you can. Because I don’t know how much longer I can wait to fuck you.”
She arches against me. Gasping. Straining.
“You got that? Can you do that for me?”
“I … Maybe …”
I keep stroking. I vary the pressure. The speed. Listening to those gasps of hers. Watching the micro-expressions flicker across her face. I nearly come myself.
“You can, Tavey. You’ve got this. I’ve got you.”And then she comes, breaking apart in my arms. “Good girl.”
