I laugh, recalling the seriousness of his expression as he lectured us about biological functions. “He was so self-righteous about it, too,” I recall. “He wouldn’t believe you that it’s a myth, even after you gave him all that scientific evidence.”
“There is the endorphin release, though,” he concedes. “And the erectile tissue in the nose relaxes after you sneeze.”
The phrase “erectile tissue in the nose” shouldn’t be sexy, and it’s totally not. But there’s something about Ian’s hand on my back and his breath ruffling my hair that’s making me feel deliciously tingly.
Or maybe that’s the effects of the sneeze. I lean back against his chest again, sighing when he puts his arms around me. “You know what also feels sorta orgasmy?”
“What’s that?”
“Yawning,” I tell him. “Like when you’re just getting started on your workday and you do one of those great, big, growly yawns that goes all the way into your ears?”
Ian laughs. “That does feel pretty good. I don’t know if it’s orgasmic-level good, but it’s pretty awesome.”
I snuggle against him, loving the feel of his chest against my shoulder blades. “All right, give me orgasmic-level good.”
“Hmm…” He picks up the wine bottle and takes a drink before setting it back in the grass. His bicep brushes the edge of my breast on the way down, and I wonder if he did it on purpose. “How about that first sip of a really good Moscow Mule with just the right amount of fresh mint and ginger beer on a hot summer day?”
“Not bad.” I shift against him, conscious of the fact that I’m nestled between his thighs with my tailbone up against his fly. I can’t tell if the rigid shape I’m feeling is his zipper or his—nope, it’s definitely not his zipper. I squirm again, rewarded by a hardening against my butt.
“What about that feeling when you first wake up after sleeping late on a Saturday, and you do that awesome full-body stretch that leaves everything all tingly and satisfied,” I suggest.
“You’re big on the tingly,” he says, his breath brushing my ear. “And the sleep-related sensations.”
“I do love my beauty sleep.”
This time it’s Ian who shifts, pressing his growing erection against me. I hold back a moan, though I’m seriously turned on by the evidence of his arousal. By the fact that we’re continuing with our normal conversation like we’re both unaware of the desire snapping between us like little lightning bolts.
“Okay,” he says. “How about that feeling when you’ve been cold all day and you slip into a Jacuzzi.”
“Definitely blissful,” I agree. “I don’t know about orgasm levels, but it does feel good.”
He laughs, and I feel the rumble against my spine. His arms are folded under my breasts, and I shift again just to feel the knuckle of his thumb brush the underside of my nipple. I close my eyes, reveling in the sensation of being pressed up against the hard length of his chest.
This. This is pretty close to orgasmic.
Ian’s lips brush the top of my ear, sending goose bumps rippling down my arms. “How about biting into a brownie that’s right out of the oven,” he suggests, his voice low and gravelly in my ear. “Or rubbing a kitten’s belly.”
“Not orgasmic.” My voice comes out high and tight, and I squirm again to feel his full length against my tailbone. Ian pushes back, meeting my signal with his own. “Nice,” I continue, “but not orgasmic.”
“Maybe we both need a refresher on orgasmic,” he says. “As a reminder of what it feels like.”
A little shiver of excitement ripples through me, but I do my best to keep my voice even. “I don’t know,” I say. “Based on those last couple examples, I’m not positive you know orgasmic.”
“Oh, I know orgasmic.” His breath ruffles my hair as his hand moves slowly down the plane of my belly. I start to suck in my stomach, to do my best impression of a woman with rock-hard abs. But I stop myself and breathe easy. Ian already knows my body, and he seems to like it the way it is.
His hand skims over my stomach and keeps going, the tips of his fingers slipping beneath the stretchy waist of my skirt and inside my panties. I draw in a breath as my legs fall apart on their own, aching for his touch.
“Is that what you want?” he murmurs in my ear, fingertips scant millimeters from the throbbing bundle of nerves coiled tight with need. “You want me to touch you right here?”
Heat pools between my legs, and I nod against his chest. “Please.”
The pad of one finger skims the aching bud, and I gasp with pleasure. He keeps going, spreading open my folds to dip a finger inside.
I’m slick already, and have been since the second he wrapped the blanket around us and pulled me against his solid body. Still, we both gasp with surprise as his finger slips easily inside me.
“God, Sarah,” he murmurs against my ear as he slides two fingers into me, pumping them in a sweet, slick rhythm. “You’re so wet.”
“You have that effect on me.” My voice comes out high and shaky as he plunges in again and strokes my clit with his thumb. How did he learn to do this? To play me like a guitar that’s building to a crescendo in only a few notes?
