God.
Marcus Sloan.
“Please,” I breathed.
It came loose then the bra was gone.
He looked at me exposed to him in his bed for the firsttime, not on a stage, and he whispered, “So beautiful.”
God.
Marcus Sloan.
“Kiss me, honey,” I begged.
His hands went up my back, into my hair, pulling my face tohis, and he kissed me.
He did a lot of kissing.In fact, he kept my mouth occupiedwith his lips and tongue the whole time it took him to get my clothes off, hisclothes off (but he let me help with that part).And he kissed me the wholetime he touched me, no,caressed me, his hands roaming, slow, gentle,sweet, over every inch of me.
Finally,finally, he bent and took my nipple in hismouth.
That shot so hot up mycoochie, Islid my fingers in his hair, my neck twisting to the side, and I gasped, “Yes.”
He worked me there just like he always worked me with hiskisses these past weeks and everything he’d done that night.
Slow.Gentle.Sweet.
And just the same way, as his lips moved to my other nipple,his hand slid over my hip, over my belly and down.
I opened my legs for him.
His fingers slid through me.
My lips parted, my hips lifted, his mouth went away, and Irighted my head to catch his gaze.
Watching me, his face dark and beautiful, he stroked afinger inside.
And when he did, his face got darker, more beautiful.
Andhungry.
My hands darted out and clutched his arms, my eyes driftingclosed, I whimpered, “Marcus.”
His thumb hit me, my body jolted, my eyes shot open, and Isaw he was still watching me.
“Inside,” I gasped.
“In a minute, baby.”
“Inside,” I pleaded.
“Daisy—”
I lifted my hands to wrap them around either side of hisneck, moaned as his thumb put on more pressure, and then I demanded huskily, “Ineed youinside, honey.”
He was Marcus.
He didn’t make me ask again.
