“You good?” she asks, lips ghosting my skin.
“I’m hanging on by a thread.”
She grins. “You’ll survive.”
Her shirt goes next. No bra. Slick need surges through me. My hands tremble as I reach out to feel the soft skin of her waist. I huff out a laugh, and she bites my lower lip in response. Then I dip down to land a kiss on each breast. She gasps when my mouth closes over each nipple in turn.
She reluctantly stands up to shimmy out of her track pants. Now there’s only a tiny slip of black satin and lace covering her smooth skin. A faded purple bruise on the side of her thigh catches my attention, and I reach out, tracing the ragged edges of it. A soft, tender touch. She tenses and shivers.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, instantly sober.
“No,” she says softly. “Not anymore.”
She guides my hand up to her ribs, then lower. Her pupils are blown wide, her breathing ragged. My hand brushes over the last piece of fabric between us, and I find it damp. She’s ready for me. I stroke the soft mound, and she tilts her head back. She moans.
“This okay?” I whisper.
Her answer is immediate. “Yes.”
And then quieter, as she brushes her mouth against my jaw: “Beau, it’s you. It’s more than okay. It’s amazing.”
As if to prove it, she grips the side of my pants, fingers slipping beneath the waistband, and she drags them down with my boxers in one swift move. I lift my hips to release them, my cock springing free. She dips her head down to kiss the tip as she goes, and the pressure builds in my lower back.
When you’re on the ice, there’s this moment right before you fall, that feels like floating. You can see the hit coming before it lands, and you know you’re going to take it because that’s your job. Time slows down. The hit lands, and the ice slips out from under your skates, but you don’t care. That’s what it feels like with her.
Her mouth is on my shoulder now, slow and reverent, like she’s memorizing it. Feather-light kisses trace a shivery line across my collarbone, my neck, the line of my jaw. Her hands trace my sides, not rushed, not fumbling, just patient. Like she’s relearning the dips and curves of my muscles.
I lean back and let her explore until I can’t take it anymore. I need to touch her. To feel her under my palms, under my mouth.
“Wild Thing,” I murmur, not sure if it’s a question, a plea, or a statement.
“You going to make it?” she asks between kisses.
I nod, lips brushing the curve of her breast. “Trying not to combust.”
She curls her fingers in my hair, tugging. “Well don’t combust until I’ve had my fun.”
I groan, my grip tightening around her arms. All impulses and reflexes. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Not kill. Just disarm.”
She finally slides off the tiny panties, tossing them behind her as she settles her thighs beside mine again. It leaves her open, exposed. Hovering over me in a tease. Not quite there. I tug at her hips, desperate to feel her around me.
“God, Luna.”
“Still with me, Golden Boy?”
“I’m hanging on by a thread here, Wild Thing. Is this my punishment?”
Her laugh is dark and velvety. “No way. This is your reward.”
She dips down, letting me feel her heat for a tantalizing moment, then folds at the waist, reaching past me. When she comes back, she’s conjured a small foil packet from out of nowhere. Thank fuck.
She tears the condom open with her teeth. Lust rips through me as she grips my cock, and rolls it down in a slow, aching slide.
“Fuck.” I hiss through my teeth so hard it’s painful.
She’s ready for me, slick and warm as she finally gives me the relief I’ve been craving. She’s still in control, lowering herself down in aching inches.
