“Do you want to stop?” I ask, feeling more exposed than I ever have before. I know there is only one way this is going to end, and that’s badly, yet I can’t bring myself to do anything about it. I want this. I want him.
He shakes his head, his lips curving up into a wicked grin. “Fuck, no,” he says, lifting me. My legs automatically wrap around his waist, my jean shorts way too constricting; however, they do add some delicious friction, causing me to groan,
My arse touches the counter, and the cool granite is a welcome reprieve against my heated flesh.
I lean back enough to reach out and put my hands under his t-shirt, desperate to touch him, to feel him beneath my fingertips. I allow my hands to roam over his stomach and chest.
“Off,” I demand, my voice desperate and not quite sounding like my own.
With a raised brow,he reaches over his head and, in one swift move, pulls his t-shirt up and off before tossing it to the floor. I giggle because, given how immaculate his apartment is, I can imagine he’s not usually so carefree.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, his hands back on my hips as I stare unapologetically at his naked torso.
“Nothing. You just keep surprisingme,” I reply honestly.
“Like?” he asks, the pads of his thumbs swirling in small circular motions over my exposed skinjust above my shorts, and unlike him, I am very aware of our differences—my stomach isn’t flat, he’s athletic, where I am not. Pushing those thoughts aside, I remind myself that no one’s body is the same, it’s a vessel, a privilege, but it still takes considerable effort not to recoil and cover up.
Society is inherently toxic when it comes to physical appearances. It still has the power to make us believe that no matter what we look like, we’re inadequate in some way, shape or form.
Tobias studies me, waiting for me to reply. He doesn’t push, and I have no idea how this man right here is single.I never hear about him going on dates or see him with anyone on social media. Granted, he’s rarely on there, but I can’t blame a girl for snooping every once in a while. What can I say, I like to scroll.
I look to where his t-shirt lies haphazardly on the floor. “I imagine you probably fold your clothes before they make their way to the linen bin,” I say, glancing back at him.
He laughs at that. “Hmm, I neither confirm nor deny,” he says, and I love seeing this side to him. It’s almost playful, when usually, when I see him with Ric, he’s always reserved, with an almost quiet disposition. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not rude, but unlike me who needs to fill the silence, he’s never really seemed inclined that way. He watches, listens. I can imagine he’s very astute.
“Well, they do say it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for,” I reply, unable to stop my hands from roaming under the waistband of his joggers, pushing them lower, my eyes immediately drawn to the outline of his hard cock beneath the cotton of his tight boxer briefs.
“I can assure you, I’m very vocal when it matters.”
His hand roams up to cup my breast.
“I’m beginning to see that,” I reply as my fingertip traces over the outline of his cock.
“Good, so it won’t surprise you when I say I want this off,” he says, tugging at the hem of my t-shirt, his other hand palming my breast through the lace of my bra.
I lift my arms in the air, and he makes quick work ofpulling my t-shirt over my head and tossing it down with his.
“Hmm, pretty, but this needs to come off, too.”
Before I can even take a breath, his hand moves to the back of my bra where he deftly undoes the hooks and begins dragging the straps down my shoulders and over my arms.
“You’re a bit of an expert at that.” I hate the twinge of jealousy that runs through me. It’s a strange reaction. I’m not usually like this, but knowing he probably has a lot of experience, much like myself, rubs me up the wrong way. It’s an innate response and an unexpected one.
“I might have had some practice, but not in the way you might think.”
He leans down with his eyes on me as he takes one of my nipples into his mouth, the tip of his tongue teasing it into a peak before his teeth close around it, causing my skin to break out in goosebumps.
My hands move to his hair, holding him in place, but he lets it go with a soft pop.
“Would you ever get your nipples pierced?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it.”
“I’d love to see that,” he confesses.
“What about you? Would you ever get any piercings?”
He shakes his head, taking my other nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “Hell no, I’m afraid of needles.”
