Then again, if he asked me to stand on my head and recite the alphabet backward, I would.
She was completely caught up in the spell he’d woven. Certain that doing everything he asked would end in the kind of pleasure that shook her, body and soul.
So she settled between his thighs. His dick wedged against the top of her ass and lower back. He splayed her hair across his chest—just like he’d dreamed—then cupped her chin so her head rested against his shoulder.
“Now.” He nipped at her exposed neck. His breath was hot. Sultry. Seductive. So were his words. “Relax and let me learn all the ways you like to be touched.”
Hooking his hands beneath her knees, he bent her legs until her feet were planted on either side of his thighs, her sex spread wide.
“Hew,” she whispered, exposed in a way she’d never been before.
“Trust me, sweetheart.” He turned her head so he could claim her mouth.
She did trust him. She trusted him more than she’d ever trusted anyone.
She loved him more than she’d ever loved anyone.
And if this was the only time they would be together, if he was doing this because he’d been the one to walk beside her on her healing journey, and this was the last step, then she would revel in it. Indulge in every sweet sensation. Bask in every brush of his fingertips, savor every kiss from his lips, and delight in every pleasure he pressed on her.
Would that ruin her for any man in the future?
Probably.
But it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
Didn’t someone smart say that?
She couldn’t remember. Probably because his kiss melted her brain.
His lips were warm and searching. His tongue was hot and carnal. He tested her, teased her, learned her. And only when she was completely caught up in the play of his mouth did he use his big hands to cup her breasts.
His palms were so large and warm. His fingers so rough with calluses. But he was careful as he brushed them over her distended nipples. Gentle and thorough and studied as he found just the right amount of friction. Just the right amount of pressure.
She gasped and pulled her mouth from his so she could arch into the sensation, wanting more of it. Needing more of it.
But he was in no hurry. So she leaned her head against his shoulder, screwed shut her eyes, and enjoyed the ride.
“Touchin’ ya like this has me so hot I’m shakin’,” he murmured against her temple, playing with the tips of her breasts until they were so hard they hurt.
Time and space ceased to exist. There was only him. Only her. Only the way he pinched and stroked and plucked and plumped.
By the time he drifted one hand down the centerline of her body, both of her hands were fisted in his hair. Holding on for dear life against the agonizing pleasure of his ministrations.
He was slow as he teased her open. Gentle as he slid fingers over her distended clitoris.
“Oh, god!” she gasped when he set up a delicious, strumming rhythm that created a torturous friction.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, pressing and rubbing, pressing and rubbing until her whole body was as taut as a bowstring and vibrating with need.
“Hew!” she cried out when his fingers suddenly stilled.
He cupped her then, his palm hot compared to the air in the room. Claiming her mouth, he silenced her pleas, swallowed her objections, and gently ground the heel of his palm against the part of her that ached the most.
It settled the sensation. Tamped it down from a fiery ache to a soft, needy want. And through it all, he kissed her. Deeply. Thoroughly.
When she finally quieted, when the edge of orgasm receded and she stopped twisting and turning against his hand, he began to play with her again.
Just like the first time, he softly, slowly, gently tormented her clit to the point of pain. Only, this time, when she was close to the top of that steep slope, he dipped his fingers into her quivering center, stroking and beckoning in a come-hither motion.
