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“We have to. If we don’t, I’m gonna take off your shirt.”
He said the words, but he was still rocking into her hips, licking his tongue over her lips, into her mouth, and the ache had turned into an unbearable spiraling tension. She could come. If they kept doing this, and he kept touching her, she might. An astonishing development.
“Don’t stop,” she said. “I’m getting … I could …”
His expression turned almost fierce. “Don’t even tell me you’re gonna come.”
She shook her head. The feeling fled, scared away by all the talking and his fierceness and her attempt to hold on to it. She hadn’t come either time that she had sex, and she’d never even gotten close before when making out. Her orgasms were a shy species, afraid of men.
When he took his thigh away, she moaned in disappointment. “Shh,” he said. And then his hand was there, right where she needed it, and she moaned again.
His mouth was close to her ear, his voice low and dark and deliciously dirty. “Would you come on my hand?”
“I don’t— I don’t think so. I can’t—”
But he was unbuttoning her pants. “Can’t?” he whispered. “That sounds like a challenge.” Down went the zipper.
“Tony, we’re outdoors. You shouldn’t—”
But he did. Oh, sweet Jesus, he did.
He pushed her panties out of the way like it was no big thing. Like people did that. “Nobody’s out driving around in this weather.” One blunt fingertip found her slit and moved down, down, down. “And I’m hiding you from the road, anyway. No one’s gonna see.”
And then his finger was inside her, pushing just where she wanted him most.
“You’re so wet.” He sounded like he was choking, and she could understand that, because she felt the same way. Like she could barely breathe from all the pleasure.
His finger slid all the way in, the heel of his hand bumping into her and putting pressure up high.
“You like that, Amber?”
“Gnhuh.”
“Tell me you like it.”
He pulled out his finger, slicked it up and over and then back in. She could only thrash her head from side to side, mindless.
“Tell me, or I’ll stop.”
When he did it again, she gasped. “I like it.”
“You love it.” Then he added another finger, and she died. “I love it, too. This is nuts, but I can’t help it. You’re so hot for me, so tight. You’re making me lose my mind.”
“I’m not—making you. You’re the one—with your hand—down my—oh, God.”
He lowered his forehead to hers, his eyes trained downward on the pistoning action of his hand, and somehow that was even hotter and more wonderfully horrible, knowing he was witnessing her utter abandon.
He was so good at it. His fingers moved in time with her hips, dipping inside her, then coming up to spread her body’s slick moisture over her with a glancing touch before he dropped back down again. In and out. Up and down. But not the same every time. Sometimes he left his thumb behind, a gentle pressure like a placeholder, and sometimes he pushed a little harder, which made her want to clench and bite.
She turned her face to the side, unable to bear the weight of his forehead and the sound of his breathing when there was this storm inside her, this sharpening need that wanted out.
“What gets you off, honey?”
She shook her head. She didn’t know. Wasn’t about to tell him that when she masturbated, it was with a pillow, not like this, and that no man had ever done this to her, and she didn’t know how to finish it.
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
