An insane thought crosses my mind. Is this how it feels when I do it to others? When I try to dig into what makes them tick? Try to claw into their darkest parts to care for their most vulnerable bits?
This feels so invasive, but at least I know I’m doing it with the best intentions.
As Ted slowly, gently strokes me, while watching me like I could save him from dying, I can’t say I know what his intentions are. And that makes me incredibly uneasy. For once I don’t have the upper hand. I don’t have the answers, or the control. Even when I was with other guys, or even Lawrence, I felt I had a hold on the reigns of the crazy train. My focus was on then, but I realize now it had never been on me.
“What is this?” Ted asks, his voice low and rough as his eyes search mine for the answer.
We both still, staring at each other, in yet another battle of wills. Only my fingers curl on his shoulders as I hold my breath.
I don’t know what to say. When did we stop being adversaries? Or maybe we still are?
“I don’t know,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
Ted cups my face in his free hands, eyes boring into mine.
My heart stutters and trips over the next few beats.
Before I can say anything, he kisses me again. This time it’s so tender, it makes my heart ache. Like he’s kissing someone who is precious to him, like he never wants anything bad to happen to me.
I must be losing my mind to ascribe so many feelings to the kiss, but I swear when he parts my lips and meets my tongue with his, I blackout a moment. I feel. . . I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life to be kissed by him. Like everyone is a pale ghost compared to Ted, and I can’t recall a single face or name of anyone before him.
His finger leaves my body and I let out a whine, wanting it back immediately. But then he is between my legs, hovering over me without crushing me. His hot length presses into me through his boxers. My hips roll against his, seeking friction. I want to feel every part of him. I kick my panties down off one foot, and lift the bottom of my nightshirt.
My hands slide up his white shirt, fingers tracing along his hard abdomen, letting the dusting of hair run through my fingers as I thread them upward. He groans into my mouth. “Fuck, your touch is so sweet, cream puff.”
There’s that nickname again. A part of me wants to take offense, but every other inch of me is preoccupied with his weight, his delicious scent, the way he touches and talks to me in a way that makes me feel like a fucking queen.
I would have never guessed Ted was a talker in the bedroom. He struck me as one of those guys who pumps into a girl with serious, silent intent until he finishes then rolls over. Faelord knows I’d been with the type enough.
The larger question of what ‘this’ is and what are we doing disappears when he pulls back to tug his shirt over his head. The expanse of his manly, virile chest is exposed to my greedy gaze.
It hasn’t been cultivated in a gym to create a certain aesthetic of abs or shoulder muscle. This body is built on action, on physical labor. It occurs to me I don’t even know what Ted does for a living, and a string of guilt snakes through me.
The question scatters from my mind as he leans over my body and undoes one of the buttons on my pajama top with his teeth.
Holy hell.
He does the next and I’m lost in rapt attention to this surprising skill set. His blown pupils stay locked with mine as he gently spreads apart my pajama top. Cold air brushes against my bare flesh and goosebumps rise along my skin. Or maybe it’s because I feel vulnerable like this in front of a man I’ve spent so much time hating, but who is surprising the hell out of me.
A low masculine rumble of appreciation comes from his chest as he cups one of my breasts in his hand. Dark eyebrows knit and he looks almost in pain as he weighs my breast in his hand, brushing a thumb across the aching tip. He covers the other one, giving it similar treatment. I swallow back a moan. Ted drinks me in with his eyes, taking his time looking and feeling.
Somewhere at the back of my mind, a voice reminds me I’ve sworn off men, but this doesn’t count, right?
Not when we’ve been enemies for so many weeks. This is something else entirely.
And nothing proves that more than when he says, “You have the most gorgeous set of tits I’ve ever seen, blondie. I have to taste them.”
Before I can respond, he dips down and suckles on one. I gasp, my back surging off the bed as liquid heat zings straight from where his hot, wet tongue rolls around my sensitive tip, straight down to my pussy.
The fingers on my other breast begin to increase the pressure until he’s plucking at it, playing it like a fucking maestro.
Witchtits, I’m so wet. The anticipation of pleasure builds within me like electricity trapped in a storm cloud. I want to touch myself, push my fingers between my legs and give myself relief. I feel like my body might burst apart from all the tingles coursing through it.
And you say he’s a bad guy,my brain whispers.
He’s really, really bad, I agree. I should be freaking the hell out right now, but I can’t find the strength to freak out. Not with him doing things to my body that I didn’t know were even possible.
I can feel the desire coating my thighs fast, as he works me into a frenzy. I throw my head back and forth on the pillow, unable to catch my breath enough to form words. He laves his tongue and plays with my tingling tip like it is his sole mission in life to please me.
