His mouth finds mine again, and this kiss is slower, deeper, edged with a promise that makes my toes curl.
His hands slide under the thermal shirt, palms rough against the soft skin of my belly. He pauses there, fingers splayed wide, like he's savoring the give of my flesh. Then higher, over my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.
I gasp into his mouth and he makes that sound again, low and satisfied, before cupping me fully. His thumbs brush over sensitive peaks and I arch harder, pressing into his touch.
He strips the shirt off me in one swift motion, then sits back on his heels, just looking.
I fight the urge to cover myself. Force myself to stay still, to let him see. His gaze is heavy, deliberate, tracking over every curve, every soft place. I feel exposed and vulnerable and wanted all at once.
Then his hands are on me again, and I stop thinking entirely.
He maps me with his hands first. Palms sliding over my shoulders, down my arms, across my belly. Fingers tracing the flare of my hips, the dimples at the small of my back, the curve of my thighs.
Then his mouth follows the same path. Lips and teeth and tongue working down my throat, across my collarbone, lower. He takes his time with my breasts—sucking, biting gently, soothing with his tongue until I'm writhing beneath him, hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer.
"Jason—" His name breaks on a gasp.
"I know." His voice is strained, muffled against my skin. "I've got you."
He moves lower, kissing a trail down my belly, and I feel his fingers hook into my underwear. He pauses, looking up at me, waiting for permission. I nod, breathless, and he pulls them off slowly, exposing me completely.
The way he looks at me then—like I'm something holy and profane at the same time—makes heat flood through me. He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then higher, working his way up my thigh. My breath catches, anticipation coiling tight in my belly.
When his mouth finally reaches where I need him most, I cry out, hips jerking off the bed. He pins me down with one forearm across my hips, holding me steady as he works me with his tongue, slow and thorough and devastating. The pressure builds impossibly fast, pleasure spiraling higher until I'm gasping his name, fingers twisted in the sheets.
"Not yet," he murmurs against me, pulling back just enough to let the sensation ebb. "I want to feel you come around me."
The promise in those words makes me shudder.
He stands, strips off the rest of his clothes, and I finally see all of him. He's big—everywhere—all muscle and scars and raw masculine power. My breath catches, and he must see something in my expression because he pauses.
"We'll go slow," he says, voice rough but certain. "You set the pace."
He settles between my thighs again, bracing himself on his forearms, caging me in. His weight is substantial but not crushing, and the heat of his skin against mine is almostunbearable. He kisses me again as his hand slides between us, fingers finding me slick and ready.
"God, Nicola," he breathes against my mouth. "You're—"
Whatever he was going to say dissolves into a groan as I reach down and wrap my hand around him. He's hard and hot and impossibly thick, and a flutter of nerves mixed with anticipation makes my pulse spike.
He must feel me tense because he covers my hand with his, guiding me. "Tell me if it's too much," he says, forehead pressed to mine. "Tell me if you need me to stop."
"Don't stop," I breathe. "Please don't stop."
He positions himself, the blunt head of him pressing against me, and then he's pushing forward slowly, giving me time to adjust.
The stretch is intense, almost overwhelming, pleasure and pressure blurring together until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. I gasp against his shoulder, nails digging into his back.
He stills immediately, every muscle locked. "Okay?"
"Yes." I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper despite the burn. "Yes. Keep going."
He does, sinking into me inch by inch until he's fully seated. We both freeze, breathing hard, letting the sensation settle. I feel full, stretched around him, and when he shifts even slightly, sparks shoot up my spine.
"Fuck," he grits out, voice strained. "You feel—"
He doesn't finish. Just lowers his forehead to mine, breathing through the control it's taking not to move.
I shift my hips experimentally, testing the sensation, and he groans—a rough, desperate sound that makes heat pool low in my belly. I do it again, deliberately this time, and feel him shudder above me.
