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Instead, he dropped the basket onto the floor, then lowered down to his knees beside it.
My breath was coming in fast, frantic huffs as his hands slid up the outside of my ankles, moving upward at a torturously slow pace.
My belly flip-flopped as his hands met the outside of my knees, then slipped inward, grabbing my inner thighs, then spreading them wide.
There was a knee-jerk urge to snap my legs shut, to push him away, to avoid something that had never been something I’d enjoyed much before.
But then Cain was leaning down, his lips replacing his hands on the path upward, making little sizzles of pleasure course across my skin, and having desire pool deep in my core.
I wasn’t naive.
I knew what was happening.
But that didn’t mean it was something I’d experienced.
Once, at the very beginning of our marriage, it had somehow come up in conversation and Perry had told me with the most disgusted look I’d ever seen that “No man enjoys doing that. And any woman who expects it is just selfish.”
But I hadn’t asked Cain.
I hadn’t even implied I wanted it.
Like most other things, Cain was making me rethink things I’d thought of as facts.
Maybe some men did enjoy it.
Maybe I wasn’t selfish for wanting it.
Cain’s lips met the sensitive crease of my thigh, making a jolt move through my whole body.
But then my breath caught on a strange, strangled cry as he shifted between my thighs, his tongue sliding up the center of me.
My legs shook involuntarily and my hands slapped down on the back of Cain’s head, holding him against me. But he had no intentions of moving away as his tongue found that sensitive point and started to work it with light, deliberate pressure.
My breath caught, my chest going tight, my face and chest feeling unbearably tight as all my muscles tensed at once.
All the while, Cain just kept that perfect pace—never slowing or speeding up, just giving my body exactly what it needed.
It felt like something was tightening inside me, twisting more and more with each passing second.
The soft whimpers grew to sharp, frantic cries.
Against me, Cain groaned, the vibrations moving through me.
Then his hand was gliding up my thigh and his fingers were pressing against me, gauging my reaction.
My hips answered, arching, writhing, some part of me suddenly too aware of the space inside me, of the need for friction.
His fingers slid inside me, dragging a long moan from somewhere deep as my head fell back and my back arched.
There was nothing then but sensation.
My blood heated.
My skin flushed.
My throat felt ragged from my cries as he drove me up and up. Until the pleasure felt almost painful, until something within me felt about to snap.
Cain’s fingers turned inside of me, crooked, then stroked against my top wall.
