“See? Foreplay’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“Y-yes.”
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous. Look at you.”
Her face scrunches at the compliment. Discomfort warring with pleasure on features I wish I were an artist just to paint. I’d put her on a fucking chapel ceiling and share this devastating beauty with the world.
My insides go weird at how I’m being. All the thoughts taking over my head. Beauty and painting and how I don’t, for one second, plan to let this moment end. To let any of this end, not now, right here in her bed on a bright Thursday afternoon. Or the next time.
’Cause there’d better be a next time.
Fuck, I want this.
“Your cunt’s so tight. You clamping down on my fingers like this. Makes me so excited to fuck you again, harder this time. Can’t stop thinking about it. How you feel around my bare cock.”
“I don’t…”
“Never fucked anyone else bare, Kit. You know that?” My fingers play with her, slowly. I go deep and then ease out, use her wetness to slide up and stroke her clit, then down again.
“You want it again?”
She doesn’t respond, although I can’t tell at this point if it’s because she can’t or some vestige of modesty is telling her not to.
Fuck that. I’ll bust right through the modesty, the hesitation. Over and over again, if I have to.
I’ll make this body—this woman—crave me the way I crave her.
Painfully, inevitably.
Hell, I’d stop if I could.
No. No, that’s a lie. Because it’s gone too far, now. Or maybe it was already too far the second I saw her, met her, told her I’d give her what she wants.
I look down at her face—flushed and lost and so fucking beautiful I am crushed beneath the weight of wanting her—andadmit to myself that I’ve badly miscalculated…well, just about everything.
24
Kit
“Yeah,” I gasp as Jake works me close to that orgasm point again with irritating ease.
“Good girl,” he says, mean and growly above me. “You’re so fucking good.”
His body’s huge, taking up more than his share of the bed, claiming space the way he keeps claiming my body with just two fingers and a presence I can’t ignore.
He should stop all this talking and touching and get to it. My pleasure’s secondary here.
“You…you…you don’t have to…”
“What?” He’s right there, above me, in my space, his breath warm, his body the kind of fragrant I am inexorably drawn to. Soap and aftershave and that combination of pheromones that feels right.
“I don’t have to finger you in your sweet little bed? Huh? I don’t have to make you come again before planting myself inside you and giving you my seed? You don’t want that? You don’t want the pleasure? Just the pain? The chore of having a baby? That what you’re saying?”
He draws out for a second and I’m incapable of stopping the way my body tries to hold on to him. When he swipes my copious wetness up and uses it to rub my clit, I feel something close to gratitude. He knew. He knows. I need this, more than all the rest of it. I need the pleasure. The good ache to steal a little space from everything else.
“I’ve heard,” he says darkly, leaning in to speak beside my ear like he’s sharing a secret, “that if you orgasm, it might increase your chances of conceiving.”
Oh, god. Is this sexy?Is it?Talking about this? No. No, it’s not. Or it shouldn’t be. But then he sinks those fingers back inside me and pulls forward like he’s calling me to him and says, “Also, you’ll remember that my dick’s pretty fucking big and I don’t want to hurt this poor little pussy when I slam inside it and fill it up.”
