Suddenly, the rush of getting to his place slows down. Something about going into his bedroom… This feels different from a sexy, anonymous hookup in a hotel. This is his home. Where he sleeps. Where people he’s dated have stayed.
I look over the dark room while he turns on a small bedside light using an app on his phone. The curtains on the window are open, and the moonlight that’s reflected off the river outside casts a white glow over the room.
“Willow.” His voice is quiet.
I step into his arms and lift my face. He kisses me lightly, probingly, as if he’s tasting a brand-new dish for the first time. His lips are light on mine as he presses and licks, explores my tongue and the depths of my open mouth. His breath is so natural, so sweet. It’s like our bodies perfectly balance each other. I close my eyes and reach for his ass, pulling our hips close.
“Willow,” he says again.
I hum my response against his lips.
“I do want to know your last name,” he whispers. “I don’t want to have to stalk your discarded junk mail to figure it out.”
I giggle and pull my face back from his. “Watkins,” I say. “Willow Watkins. Nice to meet you.”
“It’s so fucking good to meet you,” he says, wrapping his hands around my hips and picking me up again.
He sets me down on the edge of his bed. It’s made, but hardly. The white down comforter has been tossed across the king-sized mattress but not really smoothed, and I can see the edge of his dark-green sheets because he hasn’t bothered to cover the entire surface of the massive bed. His pillows are all wonky, like he rolled out of bed after clutching them in his arms and bunching them under his head and they’ve patiently been waiting there in the same position for his return. I can understand the feeling.
When he leans me back against the soft covers, I look up at the ceiling and lift my hips, letting him strip off my yoga pants. The cool air meets my bare flesh and raises goose bumps on my thighs, but I’m not moving. Not covering up. I feel exposed but not vulnerable. Sharing pleasure, showing him my body… That’s easy. And I love it when relationships are easy.
Benny kneels next to the bed, and he’s pulling off my panties and setting them someplace out of my sight. I flutter my eyes closed and give in to the feeling of his warm palms skating up thelength of my thighs. I moan, a soft but greedy sound. He’s just barely touching my skin, but already, I am starving for more of him.
He tugs gently at my hips, urging me toward the end of the bed so he can kneel on the floor and reach my pussy with his mouth. I feel kisses following his fingers, first along the tops of my thighs and then between my legs and along my inner thighs.
His breathing is ragged against my skin, and my nipples tighten deliciously, a thrill radiating from my breasts, through my belly, until the pulse pounds in my core.
He widens my legs, pressing my knees open. “Willow,” he gasps, “you smell like fucking cherry syrup. Sweet and…” I feel his lips against my seam, and my hips buck. “I’m not going to be able to hold back,” he mutters, turning his head and cursing against the tender skin of my thigh. “You got to talk to me, babe,” he says. “Smack me in the back of the head if you have to. I don’t want to do too much, but fuck, you’re beautiful.”
I reach down and slide my fingers through his thick, soft hair. The waves of it are smooth, like he doesn’t even use styling product, and the heat from his skin radiates into my tightening grasp. “You won’t be too much,” I tell him. “But I might be too much for you. I know what I need to come,” I warn him.
“Take it,” he begs. “Take it from me, babe. Don’t hold anything back from me.”
His words do something funny to me. He sounds sincere. This isn’t just dirty talk he’s trying on to see what it does to me. He doesn’t sound like he’s trying to impress me now, the cocky bravado totally replaced by intensity.
When he lowers his mouth to my pussy and I feel the lightest touch of a fingertip, I gasp, and he praises me.
“Yeah, baby. Help me learn what you like. You like this?” He strokes me in long, smooth touches, the pressure so delicate, I want to thrust my hips against him to speed him up.
“Fuck, yes.” Part of me wants to pull back a little. Communicating like this is rare for me.
I force my body to relax, my legs to open. I try hard to get the hell out of my head and let him lead our pace. This is different from last night. More intimate, if that’s possible. It feels good but also scary.
“Is there anything you don’t like?” he murmurs, and I feel the light rasp of his breath on my trimmed hairs. His hands don’t stop kneading me. It’s like his palms are massaging me while his fingers stroke me. I can’t keep track of everything I feel, but it’s all so, so good.
I’m lost in a haze of bliss and warmth, all of it coming from his voice, his touch.
“I’ll tell you,” I promise. “You won’t break me.”
With that, he lowers his lips to my clit and flicks the hot tip of his tongue against me. He slides one finger inside me while he sucks my clit into his mouth.
The pleasure is immediately intense, but perfect. He matches every movement of my hips, every gasp and groan with more pressure, faster movements, or by slowing down agonizingly. I grip the sheets in my hands and lift my knees, propping my feet on his shoulders.
“Fuck, yes, Willow. You’re so goddamn perfect. You’re beautiful. Fuck,” he grates out, lifting his mouth only for a second from my clit. “Fuck my face, babe. Take what you want.” As soon as he gets the words out, he goes right back to sucking me while he maintains the slow, relentless strokes of his fingers inside me.
By the time I feel the intensity building, I’m holding his head and rocking my hips hard against his mouth.
“More,” I beg him. “Your fingers… Fuck me, Benny. Oh God, fuck me harder.”
