His mouth is warm and provocative, quickly setting me on fire—no surprise there. My tongue meets his, swirling, seeking and demanding all he’s willing to give.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he murmurs.
“Tell me.”
“Just looking at you makes me hard, touching you, fuck…even a little, and I’m near ready to come.” He presses his erection against me as tangible proof. Slickness floods my core, my body reacting to the knowledge of how much he wants me.
“I like your face, your smile, your eyes. I even like that big, smartass mouth of yours.”
Said smart mouth parts for another kiss, but he gives me more than I ask for. His hands slip to my behind, his heated palm branding me as he kisses me deeply, urgently.
Then without warning, he flips me on the bed and onto my stomach. The cool air in the room sluices over my bare shoulders and back, my legs, and inside my thighs. Stiles rises over me. His warm breath bathes the nape of my neck. His kisses start there, teasing me mercilessly as his mouth travels down my back in sensual exploration.
“And your ass…I like that a lot.”
“Jasper.” I fist the sheets and moan at the sinfully erotic contact of his tongue stroking my flesh. He licks all over the mounds in arousing circles, his hands pulling the cheeks apart and pushing them back together. I can hear his breaths coming as fast as my own. He urges my hips up, my knees coming under me until they’re bent on the bed.
Opened and parted for him in every way, he shoves his tongue into my core. “Ohhh.” My entire body quakes at the dark and wicked feel of him tongue-fucking me from behind.
I lift into his mouth, and he reaches beneath me, pressing the flat of his fingers against my pulsing clit, rubbing and massaging. I’m overloaded. The ecstasy of his tongue in this position is so intense, so ruthless, I climax in hard shudders, burying my scream in the pillows.
I hear the side drawer opening, and then Stiles mounts me from behind. I’m soaked for him. He bends over me, sinking his teeth into my shoulder. “I love your pussy,” he rasps, “but this time, I want your ass.”
“Take it.”
“Fuck, Jordyn.” I feel the cold gel on my bottom and his finger crawling down the crease and easing past the puckered rim. I push back, loving the sensation of him loosening me up. I hear the vibrator next, and my excitement grows.
“You brought King out,” I say between moans.
“King?”
“Short for King Kong.”
“You’re damaging my manhood,” he grunts.
“There’s no comparison.” I mean that—not to any device or to any man.
Stiles removes his finger and replaces it with his lubricated cock by slow, exquisite inches. His groan is ragged as he restrains himself to keep from hurting me. The stretch burns, but only in the best way, and when the vibrator enters me, I whimper and rock into all the sensations. Filled to the hilt, the butterfly pulses and flutters against my clit.
“More!” I scream, and he increases the pace. His hips churn, and mine greet his vigorous thrusts while the vibrator works me from the front, and he works me from behind. My nipples, hard as arrowheads, chafe against the sheets. It’s lusty and frantic. I squeeze my eyes against hot tears as I climax. He curses and groans, coming long, raw, and scorching.
My legs give out, and I melt into the mattress. The vibrator, still buzzing, slips out of me, and Stiles collapses on top, kissing my nape and shoulders before rolling off me, panting hard. “Fucking hell.”
“I’m too dead to talk.”
He chuckles and strokes a hand over my back. “Every time, every way with you is incredible. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
As if I can even move, much less walk.
The mattress shifts, and I hear the water run. Moments later, I feel a damp cloth running down my back and between the seam of my butt cheeks. “That feels nice,” I murmur. He kisses my shoulder and disappears into the bathroom again, this time returning with a towel to dry me off. If I’m not careful, I might do something foolish—like fall in love with Stiles.
IGET HOME FROM WORK on Monday evening. Through the patio doors, I see Pops with the hose, even though the sprinklers are on a timer. With his concussion, he should be resting, but given it’s a joy that may not last much longer, I don’t say anything.
“How’s your head?” I ask, crossing the yard to him.
“Screwed on.”
“Very funny. Any more headaches or nausea?”
