Page 90 of Second Chance

“Just let me touch you. Feel me.” I nod to agree, but he’s lost, focusing on my zipper which he slides downward at a torturously slow pace.

“You,” I whisper, gaining his attention for a brief second. His head pops up. His eyes look wild. The darkness speckles with pinpricks of light seeping in from the moonlight outside. Otherwise, we are enveloped in black.

My jeans are forcefully tugged at the hip and I wiggle to help him slid them down my body. He presses kisses over my thighs and across my kneecap. He drags his tongue down my shin, and I’m grateful I shaved. He struggles only briefly with my skinny jeans at my ankles, and then he throws them to the floor. He reverses his attention, pressing kisses up my shins, circling my knee with his tongue, and drawing open mouth kisses over my skin on my thighs. His nose brushes against my core, and he inhales. The scent of my sex fills the room, and I buck at the attention.

He pulls back and scoots off the side of the bed. Quickly, he removes his T-shirt with one tug from behind his neck, and then he undoes his jeans. In only his boxer briefs, he climbs back over me to kneel between my legs.

“Only pretend,” he tells me, like a warning, and I so desperately want to ask what he means. But my body sings for his attention. My skin hums from the bath of his lips up and over my legs. My core pulses—heavy, sluggish, deep—weeping for release. Thick palms massage up my legs once again before he hovers his body over mine. Balancing on one elbow by my side, he tugs the center of my underwear aside and impales me with two fingers. No prep. No warning. I buck off the bed, drawing his fingers into me, feeling full, wild, and ready. He drags them to the edge and then plunges forward again. I respond with a moan and clench, willing the digits to remain inside, and yet loving the teasing pull to release.

Denton’s resting partially over me, attempting to hold most of his weight on the one elbow but his free hand repeats the motion of plunge and pull, back and forth. His other fingers pluck at my breast, sagging off to the side. He strums my center and tugs my nipple, and I realize he’s touching me like he might stroke his guitar. I’m his instrument, and he’s playing me. The telltale sign of fluttering butterflies crawls up my thighs. The pressure builds as Denton works me into sensory overload. He rolls his hips, releasing my breast with a final pull and presses upward to balance on one hand.

He’s sexing me with his fingers, but his dick is so close. Only stretchy cotton briefs separate us as his hips begin to thrust in matching rhythm with his fingers. He drags back before forcing forward, his hips keeping pace, his dick nudging me just off center.

“So close,” he mutters, and I don’t know if he means me and the building orgasm, or him and his dick near my core. Either way, I’m a bundle of desire—building, building, building—and then crashing.

My hips flex upward, my channel clenching to keep the thickness of Denton’s fingers buried inside me as I ride the curls and curves of an all-encompassing orgasm. My back arches, my knees clamp his hips, and my body begs for more.

“Just pretend,” he whispers as if he’s reminding himself. He gives me what I need, working his fingers to draw out every drop of my pleasure before he removes his fingers and presses the covered tip of his hardness to my swollen core. He thrusts forward as if he wishes to enter but can’t, won’t. This is the pretend he means. Tonight should not be the night between us, and yet he needs to be close to me.

I meet his thrusts with my own, allowing my imagination to mingle with his. What if… My hands clutch at his back, expanding and flexing with each pulse at my entrance, wanting his admittance but holding back. My knees fall to the sides again, and I open as much as I can to him. My fingers find his ass, firm and flexing with each press forward. I squeeze, pressing at him to come closer, come inside. I’m ready to beg when his pace increases. He’s pumping against me, and I’m afraid to speak, afraid to break the strained concentration on his face. A vein bulges along his neck, and I want to lick him there. I want to bite his shoulder. I want him buried inside me.

I don’t realize how wild I am in response to him until I hear the bed creaking in rhythm with us.

Squeak, squeak, squeak, and then he stills. He’s biting his lip and pressing so hard against me, I’m convinced the covered tip has entered me a little bit. I’d giggle at the concept of only the tip if I didn’t think he looked beautiful and pained at the same time I feel wet warmth against me. He pauses, pressing against me, holding this glorious position and then he collapses. He blankets me a second, taking deep breaths against my neck. He slips to the side, and the moist cotton drags over my hip. His hand comes to my throat, fingers on my pulse point.

“Your heart’s racing,” he mutters into my shoulder before kissing it.

“That was…” My voice drifts. I’m not certain how to categorize what just happen. It was the best non-sex-sex I’ve ever had.

“Yeah.” I hear the smile in his voice and the curl of his lips lingering on my shoulder. “That was.”