His lips meet mine, and unlike the fierce claiming of our first kiss, this one is slow, deliberate, a meticulous exploration that leaves me breathless. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entry, and I open for him without hesitation.
The kiss deepens, his hand tightening in my hair, and I make a soft sound of surrender against his mouth. This feels nothing like the awkward kisses I've experienced before—this is artistry, expertise, a man who knows exactly how to elicit response from a woman's body.
When he finally pulls back, my lips feel swollen, sensitized, and my breathing comes in short, shallow gasps. His eyes are dark with desire as they roam over my face, my neck, lower to where my chest rises and falls rapidly.
"You're so responsive," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. "So beautifully responsive to my touch."
His hand moves from my lip to my throat, tracing the rapid pulse there, then lower still, skimming over my collarbone, down to the swell of my breast. Even through the fabric of my shirt, his touch leaves a trail of fire on my skin.
"I want to touch you," he says, his voice rough with restraint. "I want to learn every inch of your body, discover all the ways I can make you come apart in my hands."
The crude yet poetic words send a shock wave through me, desire mingling with apprehension. I've never gone beyond kissing, never felt comfortable enough with anyone to allow more intimate touches. But with Sutton, my body seems to have a will of its own, arching slightly into his exploring hand.
"I... I haven't..." I stammer, heat flooding my cheeks.
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by a flash of something darker, more possessive. "You're inexperienced," he says, not a question but a confirmation of what he's suspected.
I nod, unable to meet his gaze. "Very."
A slow smile spreads across his face, predatory and pleased. "Then I'll be your first. Your only." His hand cups my breast fully now, his thumb brushing over the nipple, drawing a gasp from my lips. "I'll teach you everything about pleasure, Cecily. Show you all the ways your body can sing under the right touch."
He leans in, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear. "Do you want that?" he whispers, his breath hot against my skin. "Do you want me to show you what it feels like to come apart in my hands?"
I can't speak, can only nod, my body trembling with need I've never felt before.
"Words," he commands softly. "I need to hear you say it."
"Yes," I breathe, my voice catching. "Please."
That's all the permission he needs. In one fluid motion, he pulls me into his lap, my legs straddling his thighs, my center pressed against the hard evidence of his desire. His hands grip my hips, guiding me in a slow, torturous rhythm against him.
"Feel what you do to me," he growls, his eyes never leaving mine. "Feel how much I want you."
The friction is exquisite, even through the layers of our clothes. I whimper, my hands clutching at his shoulders for support as he continues to move me against him.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, one hand leaving my hip to tangle in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat to his hungry mouth. "So perfect."
His lips trace a burning path down my neck, over my collarbone, to the edge of my shirt. With his free hand, he tugs the fabric aside, his mouth finding the curve of my breast above my bra.
"Sutton," I gasp, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through me.
"I've got you," he assures me, his voice a soothing rumble against my skin. "Just feel, Cecily. Let yourself feel everything."
His hand slides under my shirt, up my ribcage, to cup my breast through the thin material of my bra. His thumb circles my nipple, drawing it to a tight peak, and a moan escapes me—a sound I barely recognize as coming from my own throat.
"That's it," he encourages, his eyes dark with approval. "Let me hear you. Let me know how good this feels."
His other hand leaves my hair, sliding down my back, over the curve of my bottom, then around to the button of my jeans. He pauses there, his eyes seeking mine.
"May I?" he asks, and the fact that he's asking permission—that despite his dominance, he's giving me this choice—makes me want him even more.
"Yes," I whisper, beyond shyness now, consumed by the need building inside me.
He opens the button, lowers the zipper with agonizing slowness, then slips his hand inside, over the thin cotton of my underwear. I jerk against him as his fingers find the center of my need, pressing gently through the fabric.
"So wet," he murmurs, satisfaction heavy in his voice. "So ready for me."
His fingers move in slow circles, building pressure that has me squirming in his lap, chasing a relief I've only vaguely understood before this moment.
