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He looks amused. “What? It’s perfectly natural. I’ve earned my red wings.” He smirks.
My face burns at the thought of what that means. “Oh my God.” Cole wouldn’t come within a mile of me at that time of the month.
He just laughs and kisses me. Ooh, this is nice, all cuddled up to him in the back of the car. It’s warm beneath our jackets, and he smells good, and I love the way he kisses me, as if he has all the time in the world. My lips feel hyper-sensitive, and when he nibbles my bottom lip and then brushes his tongue across it, I tingle all over. Is this really happening?
We kiss for ages, slow and unhurried. For a long time, the road is quiet, people locked in their houses, the road free of traffic. Eventually, a car passes behind us on the state highway, its headlights briefly filling the Jag with light, and then it’s gone, and it’s just us in the inky darkness, with a brush of silver starlight to illuminate us.
“Turn around,” he says, shifting on the seat so his back is against the side door. I move so I’m leaning back against his chest, half on his lap. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his breath whispering across my ear.
I shiver. Ooh. That’s hot.
He finds the bottom of my sweater and slips his hands beneath it, resting them on my abdomen. “Poor baby,” he says softly, stroking his hands there. “I want to make you feel better. Let’s see if we can relax those tight muscles.”
I don’t say anything, my chest rising and falling fast as my heart races. He traces his fingers lightly over my stomach, then higher, across my lower ribs, beneath my bra. “Can I undo this?” he whispers.
I swallow, nod, and lean forward a little so he can find the catch. He flicks it with two fingers, and it pings undone.
“Jesus,” I say, leaning back against him again and closing my eyes. “That was smooth.”
“We aim to please.” He slides his fingers beneath the wires of the cups and lifts them up. “Do you like your breasts being touched?”
I don’t answer, remembering how Cole sometimes grabbed them while we were having sex, squeezing them so hard it hurt.
“Open your eyes,” Damon says. “Look at me.” His voice is low and growly. When I look up into his gingerbread-brown eyes, he instructs, “Don’t think about him.” Then he cups my breasts with his warm hands.
I flush at the heat in his eyes as he lowers his mouth to mine. While he kisses me, he strokes his thumbs over my nipples. My breath leaves me in a rush.
“Do you like that?” he asks, teasing the tips with the pads of his thumbs. I swallow and nod. “Good,” he says. “Because I’m going to play with them for a while.”
My answering sigh turns into a soft moan, and he kisses me again. “Your breasts are amazing,” he tells me in between presses of his lips to mine. “The perfect size and shape.”
“I think they’re my best feature,” I reply, my voice little more than a squeak.
“I dunno, the rest of you is pretty good. You’ve got a nice ass. But yeah, these are superb.” He takes the tips between his thumbs and forefingers and tugs them, ever so gently. “When you’re on your own, you should start by doing this.”
I close my eyes. Holy shit. Nobody’s ever touched me like this. Does he really think I could do it to myself? Do other women do that? Without feeling guilty or shameful? I don’t think Damon has an ounce of shame in him.
How fucking wonderful.
He does as he promised, and plays with my breasts for ages. At one point, he lifts his fingers to his mouth, licks them, then returns them to my nipples, spreading the moisture across the sensitive skin, and I shudder as he continues to tug and squeeze them, so gently it makes my throat tighten with emotion.
The windows are starting to steam up now, and I’m finding it hard to sit still in his lap. I can feel his erection against my butt—he’s definitely turned on, too. I’m not sure whether I should touch him. He said he’s not expecting anything, but it seems wrong to just sit here and let him do all the work.
Turning a little to face him, I slide a hand down his front, over his belt, intending to stroke him. He catches my hand, though, and moves it away.
“No,” he says firmly. Mr. Soft Dom.
“Damon…”
He turns me again, pulling me back against his chest, then pops the button at the top of my jeans. “I told you,” he scolds. “This is all about you tonight.”
“But—”
“Belle. I want you to sit still. Close your eyes. And just concentrate on how you’re feeling. Because I’m going to ask you to describe it to me.” He slips his right hand beneath the elastic of my underwear. I suppose I could take my jeans off, but he doesn’t ask me to. Instead, while his left hand moves back beneath my sweater to my breast, he eases the fingers of his right hand down beneath the tight denim. I feel him stroke my mound, and then he carefully slips his middle finger down into my folds.
“Ah, fuck,” he says. He laughs then and shifts on the seat, pulling me tighter to him, making himself comfortable. “This is going to be easy as,” he says.
“Why?” I ask, breathless, as he strokes me.
