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But he wouldn’t acquiesce.
He endured the way I twisted and yanked at his clothes as his head moved between my breasts, the brush of his beard a new, exciting sensation as he slowly moved downward, making goosebumps rise up on the surface of my skin as he went.
At the last second, he curved far out to my side, avoiding my stitches, so they didn’t scratch at his skin. His tongue traced the line of my pants low at my hips. His teeth nipped into the hollow of my hipbone. Then his fingers snagged the waistbands of my pants and panties, pulling.
My legs tightened around his back, anchoring me to him allowing me to lift up my hips so he could slide the material over my butt. Dropping back down, my legs slowly slipped down his sides as he kept removing the rest of my clothing, pulling it over my thighs, my knees, calves. Taking a step back, he freed one ankle, then the other.
He didn’t immediately move back between my legs, instead held my ankles, pressed my knees upward and in toward my chest. His wide chest expanded further as he took a deep breath before his body bent again, his gaze going to the skin he had just exposed, his lips pressing into the inside of my ankle.
The touch, so unexpected, so foreign, made my body jolt, my leg attempting to pull away, but his hand held on, keeping me still, allowing him to, well, worship me.
There was no other way to describe it, was there?
It sure as hell felt like worship as his lips moved over skin no man had ever paid attention to before.
Up my ankle, my calf, over my kneecap.
His hands moved then, grabbing me at the lowest part of my thighs, pressing, spreading my legs out against the table, exposing me completely.
But he just continued his lazy exploration, his tongue tracing up the soft skin at the back of my knee, something that made my sex clench hard.
He moved up my inner thigh, his tongue tracing the space where it met my hip.
Then suddenly moving inward, mouth closing over my clit before I could even prepare for it, making my hips jolt upward, my hands slam down on his shoulders, my breath hiss out of me.
“Oh, my God,” I whimpered, hand moving up to grab the back of his neck, holding him to me as his tongue moved out, stroked over me, stoked the fire until it felt like it was burning me up, until everything in me seemed to liquify under the intensity of the flames.
“No!” I whimpered when he suddenly pulled away, yanked out of my grip, standing up suddenly, looking down on me, eyes pure need as he watched me.
His hands moved, seemingly in slow motion, going to the front of his shirt, slipping the first button free.
It was then that I felt myself folding upward, not even thinking of it at first, but following my body on instinct as I sat upright, as my hands moved out to brush his out of the way, taking over the task myself.
There was a moment of disappointment at realizing he had another layer on, but that was gone just as quickly as the top layer, leaving behind, well, him. In all of his beautiful, masculine glory.
His tattoos snaked up his arms, over his shoulders, his chest. I’d seen them before briefly, but this felt different, felt much more intimate. Maybe because I knew him, because I was finding meaning in the pictures he chose to etch into his skin forever. An eagle with a trident on one pec, something I figured represented his time in the service. Beside it, a woman burying her face in her hands crying. Whether this was a known woman, or simply a faceless representation of some of the sadness he had maybe brought onto various women during his time in the service was beyond me. There was a mountain covered in trees, maybe representing his time with his father as a boy. Nautical stars were there with little cultural images, likely representing the places he had seen in his life.
Some of the tattoos were old enough to be sliced through with various wounds he must have survived, healing over to look pink and shiny. A ton of them. Too many to count right now. Maybe someday I would. And maybe he would tell me their stories, share with me those pains.
But right now was not the time for that.
My hand moved out, fingers sliding over the deep indents of his abdominal muscles.
As far as I knew, Ranger did not work out. Not in the traditional sense that he sweated just for the purpose of sweating. But he did work out his body. Most days, from nearly sun-up to sundown. And, somehow, I liked that a lot better. I liked the idea of his body being a testament to the world he built rather than just the product of grunting in a gym with a bunch of other guys.
