He snickered. “Are you implying I can’t get hard again? Or stay that way?” As if I had challenged him, he moved between my legs and spread me further apart. With his fingers, he touched, stroked, speared, and claimed me, spreading my wetness around, glancing brushes against my clitoris that drove me wild but never enough to get me close. Which was good. I didn’t want to risk climaxing before he buried himself deep.
“You like this?”
“Yes,” I barely managed.
“And this?”
I loved that he was checking in. I nodded. Nodded again.
“Tell me.”
“Y-yes.”
That pleased him. And oddly, that pleased me. Decades of feminist striving out the window.
“I want to taste you.”
“You-you don’t have to. I know most guys don’t like it.”
“Got a source for that, Professor?”
I swallowed as another lick of sensual flame shivered through me. “Just anecdotally.”
His expression flickered then returned to that confident arrogance I was starting to enjoy. “Some asshole you dated?”
“It was a personal preference.” Of his.
“That left your sweet pussy out in the cold.” He moved in close, his breath hot between my thighs. “Do you like this, Francesca?”
“I-I don’t know. I’ve never had anyone perform cunnilingus on me.”
I was thirty-eight years old. The admission should have been embarrassing, but this was a night for honesty. If we were successful, there would be no more of these encounters. This might be my last shot at good sex.
“Just tug on my hair if you want me to stop.”
“O-okay.”
His tongue lapped between my legs, the sensations incredible. My hips shifted, my core craved. It had never felt … never been so … never … oh.
I tugged on his hair. He looked up.
“Sorry, I-I don’t want you to stop. I just needed to express my … approval somehow.”
“Moan, scream, scratch, tug—whatever works, baby.” And then he returned to making me do all those things. Finally, I had to push him away.
“I’m too close. You need to be inside me now.”
“So bossy,” he murmured, but he moved over me and settled, rubbing his erection—which I need not have worried about—over my soaking folds.
“Please,” I begged, not caring how I sounded. Desperate, and I worried it wasn’t just for a baby.
His chest against mine, the lovely weight of him, the feel of him hard against me—it was all too perfect, and he hadn’t even penetrated me yet. I worried I would orgasm the moment he inched inside, and it would be over too quickly.
I suspected he was concerned about this, too. His hand stroked my ass, squeezed and kneaded. His mouth was close to mine, and his eyes held my gaze as he waited.
I ran my thumb along his bottom lip, desperate to ask for the one thing that terrified me most.
Kiss me.
