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Despite the distractions, I still manage to keep most of my attention on Miles. It’s not that difficult. His gorgeous face is a mask of desire, and he keeps whispering hot things against my lips, that he loves the way I taste and can’t wait to put his mouth on me again, that he can’t get enough of my moans, and that he thinks I’m the sexiest woman on the face of the earth.
When we can no longer keep our lips connected, he pushes up on one arm and his eyes lock on mine. “I’d really like to make you come.”
“That would be amazing, but uh, I’ve never actually had an orgasm during sex before, so I’m not sure it’s possible.” If my cheeks weren’t already flushed with exertion and desire, they would be flushed with embarrassment. “Now was probably not the best time to admit that.”
He holds himself above me. It’s impressive the way he can keep rolling his hips while having yet another semi-awkward conversation, this time in the middle of sex. “Never?”
I shake my head. I’ve been close before, but my previous partners reached the end before I could.
He makes a sound, sort of like a huh and a hmm, and then folds back on his knees. “How flexible are you?” His hands are on my waist now, and he’s still thrusting, slower now, though. One hand moves between my thighs and his thumb brushes over my bingo button. I bow up off the bed, not expecting the direct contact or the intense zing below the waist.
“Oh my God. Can you do that again?” I groan.
“Of course.” And he does.
And again I bow up off the bed.
“Fairly. I’m fairly flexible. I go to yoga with my sister, but only when she drags me and there are promises of a greasy breakfast afterward.”
He does that thing with his thumb again at the same time as he thrusts and my eyes roll up. “I’m going to try something. Just let me know if it’s not working for you, okay?”
“Okay?” It’s a question more than anything, but I’m halfway to an orgasm at this point, and if he can make the impossible happen, I might just want to keep him forever. That part stays in my head thankfully.
He unhooks my feet from around his waist and lifts my legs so my heels are resting on his shoulders. He rises so he’s on his knees, then grips my thighs and starts to lift and lower me, not a lot, but it’s enough that he hits that spot inside with every careful shift.
And then he drops back down and leans forward. My knees hit my chest, and there is literally nothing I can do to help now, since I’m basically folded in half under him.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“It feels better than okay,” I tell him. “Way better, like, on a scale of not good to unbelievable it’s an unbelievable times at least ten, maybe more.”
The corner of his mouth curves up in a delicious smirk. “Good. It’s supposed to.” He starts to move again, and I don’t know what it is about this position, but it absolutely does the trick. One second I’m moaning about how good it feels and how he’s hitting the spot and then I’m gripping his forearms and screaming his name as an orgasm rolls through me. And not just any kind of orgasm, but one that steals my vision and makes the world turn black and white and starry before color returns in a vibrant burst.
He’s wearing the sexiest victory grin as he unpretzels me and folds back on his knees, lifting me right along with him so I’m sitting on his thighs. I grip his shoulders as he bounces me in his lap. It’s all I can do since I’m orgasm boneless and incapable of helping him. His expression is fierce and a bead of sweat runs down his temple.
“So fucking good,” he groans, pulling me down one last time as his eyes fall closed and his jaw clenches. He shudders and his hips jerk and then he falls backward on the mattress, taking me with him.
We lie there for a minute, panting and sated. “The Eye of the Tiger” blasts from his phone on the nightstand. It ends and Prince Francis’s meows fill the silence until the next song starts.
“Should I open the door now?” My cheek is still resting on his chest, and his heart is beating hard and heavy.
His fingers trail up and down my spine. “I think we have to if we want him to stop, but I’m not inclined to move.”
“Me either,” I admit. “But you’re right about him being a mood killer and this not being the best sex playlist.” I lift my head and prop my chin on his chest. I can see his nipple out of the corner of my eye. Miles’s chin is a few inches away, and I note a small scar. I reach up and drag my finger along the pale line. “Hockey accident?”
