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Then his mouth was on me again. His tongue plunging into me, his fingers working over the sensitive bud at the top of my sex. And once again, I was shuddering with pleasure, completely unable to control the shaking in my legs or ragged exhales.
“Oh god, Jason.”
He broke away from me, brow raised in question, as if I was actually calling him for a reason other than him breaking my brain with near orgasms.
My jaw flapped open.
“Yes?”
“Are you doing this on purpose?”
“Doing what?” he said, lips brushing over my clit.
I growled and gripped his hair with my hands, forcing him to stay there. And I swear I heard the son of a bitch laugh.
He had perfected kissing and touching me over the last week, and he would be able to get me off in minutes if he wanted to. Instead, he insisted on torturing me.
Each time I was close, he left me hanging on the precipice, raining sloppy kisses up and down my legs or dragging his fingers down my center, like he had all the time in the world to explore. I tried to yank him back to where I wanted him, whining, “Jason, come on.”
Instead of giving in, he continued edging me. Finally, I dug my fingers into his scalp. “Jason! Please! I’m dying!”
“I like playing with this pretty pussy. I want to drive you crazy, like you drive me crazy.”
“I hate you,” I whimpered, covered in a sheen of sweat.
“No, you don’t.” He slid two fingers into me, and my back bowed off the bed. “But I guess you’ve earned it.” Then he twisted his hand, crooked his fingers and found the spot to set me on fire. I exploded, screaming his name, in quite possibly the hardest orgasm to ever rack my body.
As I trembled with aftershocks, Jason levered himself over, his lips glistening with my arousal. “I love watching you come.”
“You love torturing me.”
He swiped his palm over his mouth and kissed me, but I could still taste myself on him. “I love to be the one to make you sweat and swear and beg. Normally, you’re the one to use your mouth as a weapon, but I like doing it too.” Then, as if he didn’t stun me into silence, he tweaked my big toe. “So, dinner in, like, half an hour?”
He didn’t wait for my answer, just headed toward the bedroom door. With one last sizzling look, he raked his eyes over me and licked his lips, letting out an appreciative sigh before leaving the room. I stayed on the bed, my gaze on the ceiling, my blood still buzzing from the orgasm.
It took a few minutes—or maybe hours, I don’t know—until I could move my limbs again. Lured by the sound of pots banging around the kitchen, I eventually stood up to collect my brain and pants. I hadn’t known Jason very long, and we’d only solidified our relationship status yesterday, but since he accepted my invitation to the auction and now he was making me dinner, it all hit me at once.
This was real.
This was setting dates and sharing calendars and attending potlucks or whatever it was couples did.
Gem and Jason. Coupled up. We were going to try to make a real go of this.
Wild.
The scent of tomato sauce and garlic bread brought me back to the present, and I was about to leave the bedroom when a picture on his dresser caught my eye. It was framed in popsicle sticks and looked like one that hung on the wall in my living room. The photo, from last year when I had volunteered at a summer camp, showed me and the kids covered in rainbows from finger painting day. I turned it over. A messy note was scrawled on the back,For Miss Gem, Love, Peyton.
I brought it to the kitchen, where my newly-minted boyfriend stirred spaghetti. “Jason?”
He set down the spoon, leaning his hip into the counter. “Hmm?”
I remained silent, holding up the picture.
“Oh. About that.” He smiled impishly. “I may or may not have stolen it.”
“What? When?”
“The night I dropped you off.”
