Her hum of pleasure goes all the way down to his toes. She stretches up to kiss him, pressing herself against him while he slides down the straps of her tank top. She isn’t wearing a bra and her nipples are hard, and in this moody romantic lighting, she looks ripped from a Renaissance painting.
“You have the cutest freckles,” he says. “That day at the taco truck, your sweater slipped down and I saw them on your shoulders—I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them ever since.”
“If this is your idea of foreplay, it’s working.” Her eyes flutter shut as he holds his mouth to her collarbone, desperate to kiss every single dot.
He could do this every day—could he ever be that lucky?—and it would still be a small miracle, Ramona here in front of him. He bends to kiss her breasts, sucks one into his mouth and then the other, and then he’s backing her up to the couch, sliding off her skirt, getting to his knees beneath her.
“Huh,” she says, clearly trying to hold back a smirk. “I think I like you on your knees.”
Fuck, he likes it too. He drapes one hand on each of her thighs as she leans back on the cushions, letting him hike her legs over his shoulders. She’s too pretty from this angle: lavender silk panties already damp, nipples taut, a flush fanned across her chest.
“I could spend the whole night with your pussy in my face.” He kisses slowly down her hip. “I love the way you taste. I didn’t get enough of you last time.”
“Did I distract you during class today?”
A kiss to the inside of her thigh. “Even more than before.”
She bites down on her lip, as though she knows exactly what she does to him. “Am I your favorite student, Professor Navarro?”
In response, he presses his mouth to her center over her panties, drawing out a sharp gasp. And then he can’t hold himself back—he kisses her harder, faster, savoring that sweet, earthy scent of her. Licks her through the soaked fabric. Grips her ass to bring her closer.
He could live out the rest of his years right here in her lap, her fingers scraping through his hair—he’d be completely content.
She’s already pleading, but he’s not ready for this to be over just yet. With his teeth, he snags one edge of the fabric, lifts it up slightly. And then, every ounce of his concentration focused on that single inch of silk, he drags it against her pussy. She’s so fucking drenched, all pink and swollen just for him. The awareness of what he’s doing sends shock waves through her—he feels every single one. So he keeps going, using her panties as extra pressure as he rubs them along her clit. Bunching up the fabric in his mouth. Biting into it. Giving her almost everything she wants.
“You—” she pants, “are going to destroy me.”
Not if she destroys him first.
Then, when he senses she’s on the verge of collapse, he yanks what’s left of her panties down her thighs. Holds the flat of his tongue to her clit, flicks and curls and sucks the way he learned she likes yesterday. He thinks he might devour her.
The room fades away, and it’s only his mouth between her thighs and her breathy, perfect moans. The tightening of her stomach and the graze of her heels on his back.
He lifts his mouth for only four words. “Come for me, honey,” he says, knowing she’s close.
And so she does, trembling against his tongue and crying out his name. He kisses her where he’s made a mess of her. Rubs soft circles on her hips.
“Nick,” she says, a little hoarse as she reaches for his belt. “Please, please fuck me.”
It’s a heady, addictive thing, being needed so primally. He pulls her to her feet until her mouth meets his, needing her the same way.
One benefit of this guesthouse is that the bed is only a few steps from the couch. Ramona can’t stop touching him, barely breaking the kiss to shuck off his shirt and pants. Hooking her hands into his boxers. Palming his cock.
“If there’s anything you don’t like,” he says when they’re side by side on his bed, the place where he dreamed so many dreams about her. “Or if you want to stop…just tell me.”
She lifts herself onto one elbow. Runs a hand along his cheek. “I will.”
He reaches for the nightstand drawer, where he stashed the box of condoms he picked up on his way home from her place last night. When he passes her the foil packet with a shaking hand, she can read him right away.
“Are you nervous?” she asks. No judgment, just curiosity.
“Maybe a little,” he admits. “I just—I want this to be good for you.” That new desire settles like a lump in his throat. A few minutes ago, he was all confidence, but now he’s too trapped in his own head.
He wants to tell her how much it means to him, that she’s letting him in this way.
Ramona’s eyes are heavy on his. “It’s you,” she says simply, kissing him softly on the mouth. “It already is.”
He has to swallow back the building emotion as she reaches between them, sheathing him with the condom. He’s hard and aching for her, has been since he was on his knees with her legs around his neck. Incredible, really, that he can feel so many things for her at once.
