“My god, you feel good.” She strokes harder, her hands trapped between our bodies. “You’re bigger than I imagined you’d be.”
My eyes cross. I can’t catch my breath.
And I will myself not to come in her hands, no matter how good her smooth, warm fingers feel against the steel rod standing in for my cock.
I hold myself above her, careful not to crush her, as I breathe through the desperate need for release.
“Do you ever think about me naked?” she whispers.
“All the damn time.”
“Do you touch yourself when you think about me naked?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to see me naked?”
“Aspen.”
“Help me take my clothes off, Cash. I want you to strip me bare.”
I don’t know how any sane man could decline that request. Especially when it’s accompanied by a shower of kisses on my neck.
I pull her hand off my cock and shift to hover over her as I guide her arms out of their sleeves, pressing my mouth down her arm as her bare skin is revealed. Then the other arm, tasting every inch of the flesh covering her long, lean forearm and biceps.
Her shoulder.
Her neck.
She squirms and gasps under me as I uncover her breasts—god, she’s fucking perfect—and then tug her shirts over her head.
I pause to lick her nipple, lit by the glowing embers of the fire, and then the other nipple.
“More,” she whimpers.
As if I could deny her anything.
I tease and lick and suck on her breasts, my cock getting impossibly harder at how fucking fantastic it feels to be feasting on Aspen’s body.
The way I’ve fantasized about this a million times over since the first time I realized who was in my pool house…
Aspen in reality is a universe better than Aspen in my fantasies though.
Because this Aspen is gasping and saying my name and gripping my hair and clenching her legs around my hips of her own free will.
In reality.
Not in some made-up fantasy land. It’s not a role. It’s not a part.
It’s her lifting her hips as I hook my thumbs under her sweatpants and panties and tug them down, while I’m still worshipping her plump, firm breasts with the delicious hard, rosy tips.
“Shit,” I whisper.
She makes a soft, desperate noise. “What?”
“No condom.”
“I’m on birth control. And I haven’t—there hasn’t been anyone in over a year.”
