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I reach for his jeans’ button and pop it open, then tug down the zipper. Sebastian breathes roughly as I do, as I sit up and tug them down with his briefs. He stands just long enough for me to drag them all the way down to his ankles, then steps out of them. He pulls me up to standing and reaches for my dress, then lifts it over my head. “No underwear,” he rasps. “Or bra.”
“The devil’s fabric,” I mutter as he sinks to his knees.
Gently, he kisses up my thighs. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, Ziggy.”
I slip my hands into his hair, staring down at him as he peers up at me. “I’ve wanted you to do it, too.”
Slowly, he slips his fingers between my legs. A sigh gusts out of him, before he leans in. “Can I?”
I nod. “Yes.”
His mouth is soft, searching, his fingers teasing me, curling inside. I arch up, burying my hands in his hair as he licks me, fast and expertly, learning to back off when I pull away, when it’s too much, how to swirl and flick while his fingers work inside me.
“Sebastian,” I gasp.
He groans, bringing one hand up my stomach, weighing my breast in his hand. His thumb flicks my nipple and I cry out. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop,” I beg.
He buries his face against me, taking his time, working his fingers harder, until heat finally hits me, a searing, pulsing flashflood that sweeps through me, makes me bow back and yell his name.
I collapse very clumsily onto the couch and Sebastian leans over me, eyes hazy, pupils blown wide. “Let’s do that again,” he mutters, kissing my stomach, then lower.
“Don’t even think about it!” I laugh. “Get up here.”
He crawls my way and kisses me, laughing into my mouth as I tug him closer and growl playfully, when he makes a motion like he’s going to crawl away again.
Easing back onto the sofa, which is deep and cozy, a faded, worn cotton soft against our skin, he lies beside me, stretched out. His eyes dance down my body, his hands trailing gently in their wake, wonder painting his face. “Ziggy, how are you this beautiful?”
I blush, hot and swift, and smile, my fingertips gliding down his broad chest, the butterfly over his heart, the flowers and constellations stitched across his skin. “I was thinking the same thing about you.”
“All these freckles,” he says quietly, his fingertip tracing them, connecting the dots over my shoulders, down my chest, to the edge of my breasts, where they fade. I arch into him as his knuckle grazes my nipple.
I rest my hand on his shoulder, gliding down it, my fingertips taking their own journey, over planets and scattered words, open books and ancient symbols, tortured creatures and angels’ wings, birds taking flight and broken vessels, spilling out on their sides. “I want to learn about them.”
“I’ll tell you,” he says. “Just…not right now, if that’s okay?”
I nod, as I hold his eyes. “Not now.”
“I want to touch you again, Ziggy.”
I smile. “I want that, too.”
Softly, Sebastian, drifts his hand down over one breast, then the other, softly lifting each, teasing my nipples. I sigh into his kiss, rubbing my thighs together. Gently, he drags his knuckles down my stomach, then splays his hand over my hip, parting my thighs. His fingers delve into my curls, over my clit, which pulses steadily. He strokes as he watches me, light and tender, then starts to swirl in soft, slow circles, lower, lower, just like he learned with his tongue. “Like this?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Like that.” A gasp tears out of me, then another, fast, aching breaths.
“Your sounds,” he whispers. His eyes scrunch shut, his forehead pressed to mine. “You even sound beautiful.”
I pant as he dips his fingers inside me, where I’m already so wet, so exquisitely close to release, then drags them back up, circling my clit gently. I whimper and arch my hips, throwing back my head as he curls one finger inside and strokes into me, another joining it, rubbing my G-spot. He sets his thumb over my clit and circles it steadily.
I stare up at him, smiling, wanting, finally free to give in.
Pleasure rolls through me, deep inside where he strokes, across my clit, where he circles it, over my mouth as it moves with his, through the tips of my breasts as they brush against his hard chest.
With the next stroke, the chasing roll of my hips, the building wave of release crests and slams into me. I arch into him on a hoarse gasp, shaking as he keeps going, as he whispers against my lips, kisses me.
“Inside me,” I beg. “I want you—if you want—”
“I want,” he mutters. “Condoms?”
