And then he’s dragging his thumb over my bare nipple, and white-hot heat streaks from my sternum straight to my clit.
“Ah,there,” he says, as if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.
“T-tease,” I pant.
He thumbs my nipple again, and my hips almost come off the bed.
“Dylan—”
“You’re so sensitive.”
I reach between my thighs and stroke myself.
“Ah-ah.” He drops my breast to grab my hand. “Touching you ismyjob.”
“But—”
He lifts my shirt, exposing my breast, dips his head to my nipple, and licks.
Andoh my holy heaven, if this is what’s waiting for me behind the pearly gates, I swear I’ll behave myself forever.
He sucks my nipple into his mouth, and then he strokes my pussy over my panties, and coherent thought disintegrates behind chocolate rainbows and honey rain and divine sensations twisting and twirling deliciously deep in my core.
He slips one finger beneath my panties, andyes.
Yes yesyes.
It doesn’t matter how many times this man kisses me and touches me and makes love to me.
It’s always brand new, because he keeps pulling me deeper and deeper into who he is, coaxing me to let him in deeper and deeper too.
I tilt my hips to meet his hand, and he teases me, stroking my seam, circling my clit without touching it, and my body is here for it.
I want all the foreplay.
I want to grip his hair and hold his mouth to my breasts and let him explore every inch of my pussy until I’m soaked. I want to strip him and explore him exactly as he’s exploring me, and I want to make him unable to catch his breath for the sheer pleasure coursing through his veins with every touch, every kiss, every lick, every nibble.
I want to stroke his cock, I want to taste it, I want to feel him inside me, and I want to drive him wild.
I want him to smell me when he wakes up tomorrow and come back for more on his lunch break.
My hips jerk against his hand.
I can’t find words.
Just inelegant grunts and gasps and moans as he treats my other breast to the same luxurious, thorough worship, and his knuckle grazes my clit before he slips one finger inside me.
I’m chanting something.
It might be his name.
It might be some form ofhallelujah, ornever stop, oroh my God, that feels so good, oryou’re better than a hamburger topped with a chocolate milkshake.
What are words, really?
They’re so inadequate when my body is a massive ball of primed nerves that he’s playing like I’m a piano and he’s a virtuoso.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs as he slips another finger inside me. “Tight and hot and wet.”
