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Fucking hell. She’s undressing. Right in front of me, in the dimly-lit kitchen, leaning back against the wall. She’s lifting the hem of her long blouse, revealing her lacy black bra. The lace hugs her breasts and they threaten to spill over, round and soft, white skin like silk. I can see her nipples through it, faintly darker circles, and I step toward her, unable to stop myself.
She lets her blouse drop to the floor. The pants are the same ones she had yesterday, elastic, hugging her curves all the way up to her waist.
She pushes the pants down to reveal matching black panties.
I’m aware of my breathing, growing more ragged by the second. My dick throbs desperately, and I reach into my jeans to adjust it. Just one touch and I’m so close to bursting.
“Auds...” I want her. Desire crashes into me like a wall, almost bringing me to my knees. “Fuck.”
“Here,” she says and I take a step closer, my hands fisting. I don’t know if I can control myself and not grab her and slide into her, feel her all around me.
My dick twitches.
“What?” Even my voice sounds strange, hoarse and breathless.
“My scars,” she says.
It’s like a dash of cold water, clearing the haze from my eyes. Her scars. She’s showing them to me. She came over for that reason. Trusting me.
Focusing on where her hand is pointing is difficult. My eyes keep straying to her breasts, down to the shadowed place between her smooth thighs, barely covered by lace.
She grabs my hand and places it over the horizontal scar marking one side of her belly—from the top of her hipbone almost to the navel. It’s a pale p
ink.
Then she moves my hand down to her thigh, to the vertical scar there.
But then I glance up into her eyes, and I see fear and pain and the trust her actions are hinting at, and I can’t look away. “Scars aren’t ugly,” I say.
She bites her lip. My mouth goes dry.
“You’re...” I can’t find words. I’m not good with them. But I have to tell her the truth. “The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
Her cheeks flush, and her eyes sparkle.
My hand slides up her silky thigh, between her legs. I stroke my thumb over the lace and she shudders. God, this girl sets my blood on fire. I have to finish what I started at her apartment.
Will she stop me? She looks amazing in her black underwear, giving me glimpses of what I know is underneath. I remember the taste, the feel of her breasts in my mouth.
I grab her waist and steer her toward the table. Her eyes are wide as I lift her, sit her on the edge, and tug down her panties.
God, she looks amazing.
“Open for me,” I whisper, and the flush spreads on her neck and the mounds of her breasts. I place my hand on top of her leg, then slip it down between her legs, to the soft, red curls there.
“Ash...” She’s breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling.
Losing control now is easy—and I shouldn’t. I want to give her pleasure. I need to taste her, touch her, hear her cry out my name.
No girl has ever made me feel this way before.
She shudders when I tease her seam with my forefinger and splays her legs wider, giving me access. Swallowing a groan, I press my finger inside of her.
Slick and warm and wet.
“Take off your bra,” I say through gritted teeth. I’ve never had trouble keeping myself back before, but I feel I’m going to come in my pants as if I were twelve or something.
At first I think she’ll resist my demands. That she’ll chicken out, that I’ve gone too far. I long to undress her, but I don’t want to stop what I’m doing—touching her where she throbs, where she’s burning with desire.
