He hooks his fingers into the waistband and slowly drags my panties down my legs. The way he looks at me, with a hunger I’ve only seen when he’s on the ice wanting to score a goal, makes me feel desired in a way I’ve never felt with anyone before.
He tosses them aside and gently pushes my thighs wider, exposing me completely.
For a moment, he just takes me in, and I have to fight the urge to close my legs.
“Don’t,” he says, reading my mind. “Don’t hide from me. You’re beautiful. Every part of you. You’re a living fantasy that I never could have dreamed up on my own. It’s almost hard to believe you exist and that you’re mine tonight.”
Then he lowers his head, and I feel his breath against my thigh as he presses a kiss to both sides as if to ease me into his touch, and then the first touch of his tongue to my center makes me cry out.
He groans against me, the vibration making my hips buck. “You taste like fucking heaven,” he mumbles between long, slow licks. “I could do this every night.”
I let out a whimper at the thought of this with him every night. How good that sounds… and I believe him.
“Huh? Would you like that, KitKat? To be my after-game snack?”
Something completely incoherent slips past my lips because I can barely think straight with him between my thighs, but it sounds as close as I can manage to a “yes”.
He’s methodical and thorough, learning exactly what makes me gasp, what makes me moan, what makes my thighs tremble.He alternates between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on my clit, never letting me get used to one sensation before switching to another.
My hands fist in the sheets, then move to his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands and holding on.
“Scottie,” I gasp when he does something particularly devastating with his tongue. “Oh God—”
He hums his approval, doubling his efforts.
I can feel the pressure building, that familiar tightening low in my belly, but it’s more intense than anything I’ve ever felt on my own. My thighs start to shake; my breathing comes in short gasps.
“That’s it,” he encourages, voice muffled. “Let go for me, KitKat. Want to feel you come on my tongue.”
He seals his lips around my clit and sucks, and I shatter.
The orgasm crashes over me in waves, stealing my breath, making my back arch off the bed. I cry out his name, fingers tightening in his hair, holding him to me as pleasure rolls through me in overwhelming pulses.
He works me through it, gentling his movements as I become hypersensitive, placing soft kisses on my inner thighs as the aftershocks make me tremble.
When I can finally breathe again, he’s crawling up my body, placing kisses on my stomach, between my breasts, along my collarbone, until his mouth finds mine.
I can taste myself on his tongue, and somehow that makes everything even more intimate.
“Now, you tell me. How was that?” he asks softly, brushing hair back from my flushed face as he grins down at me.
“That was… orgasmic,” I manage.
I understand why he couldn’t come up with a way to describe it either and had to show me instead. It’s so good that there isn’t a word to properly convey the feeling.
He lets out a chuckle. “I suppose that’s as accurate as you could be.”
Then he smiles—that devastating smile that made me fall for him in the first place—and kisses me again, slower this time. Sweet and deep and full of promise.
He lifts me and pulls back the sheets, pulling us both under them and setting our heads on the pillow, facing each other.
His arm tightens around my waist.
My fingers curl into his skin.
“What happens next?” I ask, not completely sure where this leaves us.
“I think, whatever we want… Mrs. Easton.”
