And knowing that I don’t need to worry about Alex. He’s not going to be intimidated by what it means to be with me like this. Not like the men I’m used to. The guys in Rebel. The guys who know I’m the town sweetheart and have not just two grandfathers looking out for me but have an entire village—literally—of people invested in what happens to me. Including my dating life.
“Show me those pretty tits,” Alex says. “I want a taste before you play with them while I eat you to your first orgasm.”
Yeah, um, Alex isn’t worried about who I am or who in Rebel might have an opinion about this. Or him. Or anything.
I slide my loose, silky shirt over my head and toss it.
He blows a breath out and shakes his head. “Fucking pretty as hell.” He leans in, bracing a hand beside me, his other hand going to my chest and pressing me back onto the mattress.
He looms over me. “Youaregoing to remember tonight.”
I wet my lips and nod. “I know.”
He lowers his head and licks his hot tongue over one nipple. I arch closer, wanting so much more. “Alex,” I moan.
“That’s right. Use my name.” He moves to the other side, licking with a firm stroke, then sucking.
Heat streaks through me, settling in my pussy, my clit throbbing with the need for friction and pressure. My hands go to his shoulders, and I run them down over his arms, feeling the muscles bunching and relaxing as he holds himself up with his left arm and cups my breast with the right. He squeezes, kneads, toys with the nipple between his thumb and first finger. He rolls it, pinches, and plucks, and I desperately want to squeeze my thighs together to try to relieve the aching there. His big bodyis between my thighs though, preventing me from moving them together. So I lift up, seeking contact with his hard body instead. Anything. I just need pressure against my clit.
“Greedy girl,” he mutters against my right breast as I rub against him. He drags his teeth lightly over my nipple.
“Yes,” I say, practically panting. “Please.”
“Please, what?”
“I need more.”
“More what?”
“More ofyou.”
He sucks hard on my nipple while pinching the other one.
I cry out. And rub shamelessly against the fly of his jeans. The rough fabric against my clit is torture and relief at the same time.
“Are you getting the front of my jeans wet, Wildflower?” he asks, lifting his head.
Maybe. I don’t even care. No one has ever talked to me like this, talking about my body so graphically, calling out my wetness, and my neediness, and being so blatant about looking at me, tasting me, touching me.
I fucking love it.
I grab his ass, holding him against me as I rub against him even more brazenly.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” he tells me. “You want to make yourself come?” He grinds into me slightly. “Take what you need, pretty girl.”
I do the hip circle again, rubbing my clit against the denim and the big, very hard ridge behind the denim.
“It’s… not enough,” I tell him, but still rubbing anyway.
“What do you need?”
“Fingers.”
He pauses, then I swear I see a glint in his eyes. “Yes.” He shifts back, holding himself up away from me. “Do it.”
I pause. I have nothing to grind against now, and it takes me a second to realize he means…
“Yourfingers,” I correct.
