Big clever fingers thrust through my hair, pinning me to the back of the couch. Then his mouth is on mine, devouring me in a feast of senses that leaves me drunk, full, and yet ravenous for more, more, more.
His tongue duels with mine, encouraging me to engage, to take, to give as good as I’m getting. And I follow every last instruction. I pursue him, sucking, licking, demanding he surrender even as I submit.
Abandoning my mouth, he trails his cruelly beautiful lips down my cheek to my neck, nipping and sipping at my collarbone. I arch into the sensual caresses, loving his mouth, teeth, and tongue on me. Loving the pleasure that contains the barest hint of pain. And when he slides to the floor, his fists balling into the hem of my sweater and tearing it over my head, I eagerly raise my arms.
For the first time, I’m half-naked in front of this man. This man who is as close to physical male perfection as I’ve ever seen. And for the glimmer of an instant, it occurs to me that I should be modest or a little concerned about my lack of perfection by society’s standards.
But then Cyrus sits back on his heels and stares at me. And that isn’t disgust glittering in his eyes. It’s not disappointment slashing red across his killer cheekbones. It isn’t resignation making his lips appear even fuller. It isn’t repulsion lifting his chest up and down on harsh inhales of breath.
No, all of that is due to lust. Pure lust.
And it’s for me.
Me with my size 16 frame, big breasts, three-pack stomach, and round hips.
A glow that momentarily capsizes desire builds and builds inside me, radiating so bright I’m surprised the room isn’t illuminated with it.
I accepted and learned to love myself a long time ago. But finally being intimate with someone who not only accepts my body but desires it heals something inside me that until this moment, I hadn’t realized had remained so broken. Was it sore to the touch? Yes. But no longer broken.
Leaning forward, I clasp his face in my hands and bring his lips to mine. This kiss is slow, not as ferocious and wild as the previous ones. It’s a thank-you, and though there’s no way he can understand the meaning behind it, he accepts it. Sinks his hand into the curls at the back of my head and lets me give to him.
But the gentleness can’t last against the gnawing passion that’s never quiet for long between us. Not when the air in the room brushes across the tops of my breasts and teases my nipples. Urgency to touch him, to be touched by him, rides me, and I lower my hands to his T-shirt and mimic his actions, grabbing it and yanking it up and off.
He doesn’t offer me a chance to admire—because, God, that could takehours—instead, he gently pushes me back against the couch cushions, and with a reverence that parts my lips on a soft, surprised gasp, he cups my breasts, lifting one to his mouth. Even through the silk of my bra, he sucks on my nipple, flicking it, teasing, worshipping. But apparently, that must not be enough, because he reaches behind me and, with expert hands, releases the clasp. My bra loosens, and he drags it off, baring me to his gaze and hands.
“Beautiful. So fucking beautiful.” He rubs his lip back and forth over the neglected tip while his thumbs circle the damp one. “How are you this goddamn gorgeous?”
I’m guessing he doesn’t expect me to answer since he draws on my flesh again, rendering me incapable of speech. My cry bounces off the walls of the room, and I clutch him to me, holding him close. Back arching, hips gyrating, trying to ride that perfect ladder of muscles he calls an abdomen, I’m a wild thing under him. There’s a direct sizzling current of electricity that travels from my breasts to my sex, and it’scrackling with lust and energy, lighting me up with dizzying speed. I’ve always figured orgasming from breast stimulation was a myth. But Cyrus is about to become a myth buster.
He releases my breasts with a soft pop and trails his lips down my belly, lingering to tease the shallow dip of my navel with his tongue. But soon, he’s unbuckling my jeans, his movements hurried and,damn, his hands slightly trembling. Biting my lip, I smooth my palms over his short hair, silently letting him know I’m all in. I want this. With him. Even if this has never been my favorite sexual activity. Before this has always seemed like a chore with the other men I’ve been with, so I could never relax enough to enjoy it or just opted to skip altogether.
But with Cyrus ... with Cyrus, I trust him.
The cool air hits my bared hips and thighs. Cyrus shifts back between my legs and, palming my knees, spreads my legs, and that same air grazes my hot, dripping sex. Because, good Lord, it is dripping. Moisture gleams on my inner thighs; that’s how aroused he’s made me. The modesty that was missing earlier after my shirt came off decides to make an appearance, and I tense my thighs, but Cyrus shakes his head, leaning over me. His tongue peeks out, and he takes a long luxurious lick up one thigh, gathering the wet there. When he lifts his head, my breath catches. His lashes flutter, and his lips curve on a smile of such complete satiation that hunger clenches my belly in sympathetic pangs.
“Don’t hide from me,” he rumbles, and it vibrates over my swollen flesh, sending quivers through me. “That’s what I want. What I need from you.”
Splaying his fingers wide on my legs, he holds me open to his gaze and then to his mouth. A cry rips from my throat, and yeah, tomorrow I’ll be feeling that one. But tonight, with his mouth sucking and circling my clit, I don’t give a damn. It’s decadent. It’s indulgent. It’s messy. It’s raw.
It’s perfection.
One hand gripping the edge of the couch cushion, and the other clutching his head for dear life, I whimper as he opens me further using his thumbs, exposing all of me. Feasting on every part of me. He nibbles and sucks on my folds, flattens his tongue, and licks a wide path between them to torture my clit, only to start all over again.
A fire builds inside of me, stoked by his dedication to my pleasure, to my demise. I can’t remain still under his erotic ministrations, and the wilder I become, the more gleeful he seems. The more determined he seems to send me careening over the edge, as if my total lack of inhibitions is his endgame.
“Cyrus, please,” I whine. Because that’s what I’ve been rendered to. Whining. Begging. Pleading. “I need ...”
Everything.
Nuzzling my mound, he licks the tight bundle of nerves cresting my sex, then presses two of those elegant artist fingers to my entrance, sliding deep, so deep, filling me. And with only a crook and rub of his fingertips, I’m flying.
No wings. Who needs wings when Cyrus can make me free-fall like this?
When I finally fall back to earth, he’s there, like I knew he would be. Still, I trail my hands down his hard, wide chest, luxuriating in the tight, golden skin. The light dusting of dark hair across his pecs and the silky line that bisects his abdomen and disappears into the waistband of his jeans.
Jeans that need to come off.
Maybe he hears me. Or the more reasonable option is he wants to get inside me as much as I want him there. Still, he strips off his jeans, removes his wallet and a condom, quickly sheathes himself. Moving back between my legs, he cups my hips, sliding his hands under my ass and lifting me to him.
