His hand slides up under my shirt. Over my ribs.
And then his strong, hot hand cups my breast. Flesh against flesh, every nerve firing, the heat of his skin shocking. I gasp, the sound punched out of me. Instinctively, my legs hook on the back of his thighs, trying to pull him closer, anchor myself to something solid.
"Breathe, peaches."
My lungs are locked, frozen. But I force air in, force it out. And then his thumb brushes my nipple, already tight and aching, and I moan. There's no stopping it.
He does it again. Circles slowly, deliberately. He already knows what this does to me. But now? Skin to skin? When herolls the tip between his thumb and forefinger, pinching gently, a bolt of electricity zings directly from my nipple to my clit.
I whimper, clutching at him, reaching for his lips with mine, needy. He kisses me, swallows the sound, and I feel his smile against my mouth.
His hand starts to move down.
Over my ribs. My stomach. My breath comes faster with every inch of skin he claims. I'm shaking like I'm cold, but I am on fire.
"Easy," he soothes, leaning over me, one hand gripping my hip, the other reaching to cup the back of my neck. His thumb strokes my pulse point. "It's not a race, remember?"
I nod. Try to breathe. Fail spectacularly.
His hand at my hip strokes down my thigh, up again to cup my sex firmly over my shorts, but they're so short, he's touching my panties, my flesh. A squeeze. I gasp. A stroke. I moan. His index and pinky finger stroke either side of my panties, but his middle finger dips into the hollow between.
"Grey--" I moan, a plea to accompany my bucking hips.
"Patience."
He's smirking, that bastard. Enjoying this. Making me wait. Building it like he said with the peach. The anticipation is going to end me. If I die right here untouched, I will haunt him straight to hell.
But then his fingers slip into the leg of my shorts, pushing the fabric aside, the cool air hitting me for only a second before his fingertips brush my slick center, feather light, Barely there.
I feel iteverywhere.In my toes. In myteeth.My body jerks like I've been electrocuted.
"Oh--"
"I've got you." Which is a good thing--I'm pushing into his hand cupped at the back of my neck, holding me steady. "Lean back for me, baby. Let me see you."
I don't understand at first--my brain is offline, but my body obeys. I ease back onto my elbows and he watches me, fingertips still playing in the slick heat of my pussy, his gaze hungry. The position leaves me vulnerable, exposed. My legs spread around his hips, chest heaving.
Instinctively, my thighs try to close.
His hands tight, holding them open. "No," he murmurs. "Let me see you."
Heat floods my face. No one has ever seen me like this. No one's ever looked at me like he's looking at me right now--like I'm something precious. Something he wants to devour.
"You're beautiful," he says, thumbs stroking the inside of my thighs.
And then he touches me again.
He explores me slowly, just fingertips tracing, learning. Sliding through the slick heat of me, andoh god--I'm dripping. When did that happen? I pant and mewl and make sounds I've never made before, hanging onto his forearm between my legs like it's a lifeline. Like I'll fly apart if I let go.
"Jesus, Molly--you're so wet."
I should be embarrassed, but the way he says it, hot and hungry, only makes me feel hot and hungry. I tilt my hips, trying to give him more access, trying to get more pressure.
He groans, and the sound does something to me, twists me tighter. Winds the coil in my belly another rotation. "You're perfect," he says, sliding his finger through my wetness again, gathering it, slicking his fingers. "So fucking perfect."
My body isn't my own. My hips jerking and shift, seeking, chasing his touch.
"Easy, baby," he murmurs, leaning over me, one Hand still working between my thighs, the other sliding up to cup my neck. "Let me show you something."
