His other hand settles on my hip. Not grabbing, just resting there. Grounding me. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
“Okay.”
“And then I’m going to make you cum on that couch you have over there.”
Oh.
“Not once,” he adds. “Not twice. But four times.”
“Okay,” I repeat, because apparently that’s the only word I know now.
He leans in. I tilt my head back. Our mouths meet, and—
Fuck.
He kisses like he’s been thinking about it for years. Slow and thorough and absolutely devastating. His tongue traces my bottom lip, asking permission, and I give it without hesitation. The kiss deepens. His hand tightens on my hip, pulling me closer until I’m pressed against him.
I can feel every inch of him. The hard planes of his chest, the muscle in his arms, the very obvious bulge in his jeans that makes me want to drop to my knees right here in my tiny kitchen and start sucking him off. I want to taste his cock so bad. I want to feel him inside me. I want...
When we finally break apart, I’m dizzy.
“Couch,” he says. Command, not suggestion.
I lead him the three steps to my sad little IKEA couch. He sits like it’s the most luxurious furniture he’s ever encountered, pulling me down onto his lap so I’m straddling him. This position makes me super aware of every curve, every soft part of me pressing against every hard part of him.
“You’re thinking too much.” His hands slide up my sides, over my ribs. “I can see it.”
“I’m always thinking too much.”
“Then let me help you stop.”
His mouth finds mine again, and this time there’s more urgency behind it. His hands tighten on my waist, pulling me closer until I can feel his incredible hardness beneath me. I rock against him instinctively, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat pooling between my legs.
Fuck he’s amazing.
When he pulls back, his eyes are darker. “Take off your shirt. Now.”
Not a question. Not even a please. Just a command, delivered in that low voice that brooks no argument.
I hesitate, suddenly self-conscious. In the soft glow of my apartment lights, I’m all too aware of every imperfection. Every curve that isn’t quite where society says it should be.
This is where I’d usually use flattering angles and good lighting.
His hand comes up, tilts my chin so I have to look at him. “I want to see you, Jess.You.”
The way he says my name makes me brave. I reach for the hem of my shirt, pull it over my head, and drop it to the floor. My bra is nothing special, just black cotton, but the way he looks atme makes me feel like I’m wearing the most luxurious lingerie in the world.
“Beautiful,” he says, and his hands span my waist, thumbs brushing just beneath my breasts.
“I’m really not—”
“Shh.” His thumb presses against my lips. “Stop arguing with me. You’re the most fucking gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
His mouth replaces his thumb, kissing me deeply while his hands move to the clasp of my bra. He unhooks it with embarrassing ease, and then my breasts are free, and his hands are there, warm and slightly rough against my skin.
“So fucking perfect,” he groans against my mouth. He pulls back to look at me, and I fight the urge to cover myself. “You’re perfect.”
His mouth moves to my neck, my collarbone, lower. When his lips close around my nipple, I arch into him with a gasp. His tongue flicks against the sensitive peak, and my hips rock of their own accord, seeking friction.
