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And the air hitting them has nothing to do with it.
He grabs them in his large hands, in those strong, veiny hands, and squeezes the tips together with so much force that it makes me whimper.
“Did he touch these tits? Did he cop a feel, Gwyneth?”
“No…he didn’t.”
“Did he try? Did you let him?”
“No…” I can’t stop whimpering and moaning at the same time because he’s mashing my breasts together, squeezing my nipples, and making them more tight and sensitive than I’ve ever experienced before.
Zaps of pleasure flood through me and cause arousal to pool in my panties, and I know he’ll feel it, too. He’s about to find out how much he affects me when he releases my throat and unzips my skirt, letting it fall around my ankles.
He cups me over my panties, digging his long fingers into my needy core with a raging possessiveness that makes me go up on my tiptoes.
“How about here?”
I’m struggling for a sliver of oxygen because I can’t speak. I can’t even think. His intensity is too raw and thick, wrapping around my throat, which is still tingling from his grip.
“Tell me, baby girl. Did he touch my fucking pussy?”
“No…”
“He didn’t, huh?” He squeezes my nipples, then glides his fingers over my dripping folds and teases my opening, and even though it’s only through the material, I’m nearing that edge that only Nate can drive me to.
The edge where nothing and no one else matters. The edge where it’s just me and him without the world’s judgment, labeling, and bullshit.
“He can’t touch it,” I breathe out.
“And why is that?”
“Because it’s yours.”
His jaw clenches and I can tell how much he’s aroused now, because his nostrils flare and the possessiveness washes over me in waves. It’s why I say things like that; I know they make him shed his control and turn into the powerful dominant who’s able to tear my world to pieces.
And then he curses and I get wetter at the thought that he wants me so much, he can’t contain it. Other men sound coarse when they curse, he sounds hotter than sin.
“What’s mine?” His voice is thicker, deeper.
“My pussy. It’s yours.”
“Fuck.”
“Yes, please fuck me.”
He closes his eyes, and even though his jaw is in a rigid line, I think he’s trying to conjure some form of patience, but when he opens them, he isn’t calm. On the contrary, his eyes are nearly black with all the shadows crowding his masculine face.
“What did you just say, baby girl?”
“Fuck me.” It’s barely a murmur now, a bit unsure since he’s pressing hard on both my nipples and my clit, playing with the tight tips, teasing and rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. And the pressure is reeling and about to take me under.
So I let it.
I let my limbs relax as the orgasm washes over me. It’s long and smooth and effortless, just like everything about him.
Then he’s moving me up and removing my panties, I realize in my pleasure haze, so I lift my trembling legs one at a time to help.
I’m completely naked now—aside from the torn shirt and bra—while he’s still dressed in his prim suit, and for some reason, that brings up the heat a notch. To make things even more unbearable, he shoves my panties in his pocket. He must have a collection of my vanilla-colored underwear by now, and I keep buying them, the same color, over and over again.
