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Now, in Des’s arms, I finally feel like myself again. Worthy of love. Worthy of affection. Worthy of sex and physical intimacy.
His hands stroke up my spine and tangle into the hair at my nape. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him deeply, trembling, wanting him to feel how much his presence affects me.
“I’ll never get sick of kissing you,” he says against my lips, a shuddering breath slipping through them after his words.
“That’s good,” I reply, “because I want you to keep doing it.”
A yelp escapes me as I’m flipped onto my back. I giggle, grateful that we’ve been relegated to the basement craft room instead of a bedroom near the others. The extra privacy comes in handy at times like this.
A thought comes buzzing through my head like an angry mosquito:Maybe I should stop this. It’s going too fast. I’m letting myself become too vulnerable to him. It’ll kill me when he leaves.
But Des kisses me again, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress. I wrap my arms around him and spread my knees until he’s notched between them, and the mosquitoes buzz right out of my head again.
I’m wearing a thick, cable knit sweater and jeans (Outfit Number Two of the Queer Eye: Heart’s Cove lineup, sans earrings now). Des lifts himself off me with a reluctant groan and starts at my feet, peeling off my socks before letting his hands coast up my legs to my hips. His warm fingertips brush against the skin above the waistband of my jeans, sliding to the front to unhook the button.
My heart is pounding so hard, it’s hard to think. I lift my hips to allow Des to slide my jeans off, leaving my underwear clinging to my hips. He pauses, hands wrapped around my jeans at mid-thigh on my legs, and stares at the lacy black fabric covering my core.
My pants come off an instant later. I claw at my sweater and in my haste, I get stuck with my arms above my head. “Help,” I squeak, and the sweater is yanked off and tossed aside.
Falling back onto the mattress, I watch Des reach behind his neck to pull his shirt off one-handed. Hot. Why is that so hot?
Des’s body is thick, and it looks just as good shirtless as it does in a see-through white tee, which is saying something. His middle is packed with big slabs of muscle. His chest is huge. I reach up to run my fingers through the coarse hair dotted over it, letting out a happy sigh.
“You’re so hot,” I say before I can stop myself.
A wicked grin, and Des is falling over me, pinning me to the bed. He kisses me hard, his hand coasting down to tease my breast. While his mouth wreaks havoc on mine, his fingers move delicately over the edge of the lace, teasing, torturing.
When his head moves over my breast and he sucks my hardened nipple through the fabric of my bra, I let out a long moan, arch my back, and claw at the clasp to take the garment off. Chuckling darkly, Des tears it off my body and returns his mouth to my breast, this time on my bare skin. His big hands—how did I ever insult those hands? They’re amazing—plump up my breasts so he can feast on them. I writhe beneath him, gripping his hips with my thighs, wanting friction, contact, everything.
Des reaches between my legs and gives me a hand to grind on. He watches my face while the heel of his palm works my clit through the fabric of my panties, studying me like he wants to record every reaction.
Frantic, I reach for Des’s belt buckle. I can’t do this again—let him wreck me without even touching him. My walls have crumbled, my defenses are breached, and I can’t stop myself from wanting him. I manage to unclasp the buckle, unzip his pants, and reach inside to feel him.
A long, low moan rumbles out of his throat when I wrap my fingers around his girth. My heart jackrabbits in my chest, movements jerky and frantic as my body spirals out of control. I need more. Letting go of him, I reach for the waistband of his pants and shove them down. He rolls onto his back and shucks them off in one movement, letting the garment fall off the side of the bed after grabbing a foil condom packet from his pocket.
The sight of it is enough for me. I pounce.
Straddling his hips, I lean over and kiss him. My hair falls down like two curtains on either side of us, a little cocoon of intimacy while I taste him, kiss him, enjoy him. His hands slide down my sides and rest on either side of my ass, squeezing gently as I start to rock.
If the Kool-Aid Man burst through the concrete wall beside me, I wouldn’t be able to stop. If the ceiling came crashing down on top of us, I wouldn’t even blink. The only thing that exists in the world is Des’s body beneath mine, his hands, his mouth, his cock.
The hard bar of his arousal is pinned between us, pressing against my soft flesh in erotic demand. I rock against it, whimpering, needing.
“Mia,” Des grates. “Mia, if you keep doing that—” He squeezes his eyes shut, his neck turning red as the muscles in it grow stark. He squeezes my hips, holding me down on top of him to stop my movements. “Stop it, Mia. Fuck, I want you. I need to be inside you.”
Finding the condom on the bed beside us, I rip the packet open with trembling fingers. Then I lift myself off his hips, roll it over his length, and shimmy forward. Holding the base of Des’s cock in one hand, I glance up at his face, and pause.
No one has ever looked at me like that—as if they’re watching something so beautiful, they can hardly stand it. My breath catches as Des’s hand slides from my hip down to my thigh, his throat bobbing as he swallows.
He opens his mouth, but I know—I justknow—that whatever comes out will be more than I can bear. There’s emotion in his eyes that I’m not ready to face. There’s an intensity between us that I might be able to ignore if I try very hard. I know, looking at Des’s face, that the connection I feel for him goes both ways.
So, before he can speak, I pull the gusset of my panties to the side and sink down onto his cock.
We moan in unison. My head falls back, the ends of my hair dancing against my back. My hands drop to Des’s chest, gripping his skin for support.
I wiggle, taking him deeper, feeling the beautiful stretch of his intrusion. Nothing has ever felt this good. Opening my eyes, I meet his gaze—and I start to move. Des’s hips rock up to meet mine, and the friction—
I gasp, his hands holding my hips tight, helping me rock and buck and writhe—
