“Among other things.” He traces a finger along the edge of my bra, following the lace from one strap to the other. “I kept imagining what you’d look like in my bed. Whether you’d taste the same as I remembered.”
“And?”
He leans down and kisses the swell of my breast, just above the lace. “Better.”
I arch into him, and he takes the hint. He reaches behind me and unhooks my bra with one hand, then pulls it away and drops it over the side of the bed.
The way he looks at me—like I’m the most stunning thing he’s ever seen—does something to me. Something I refuse to examine. This is just sex. Just one more night.
He cups my breast in his hand and brushes his thumb over the peak. I gasp, and he does it again, watching my face, my reactions. Then he lowers his mouth and takes me between his lips.
“Oh, God.” I thread my fingers through his hair and hold him there.
He swirls his tongue around the sensitive bud, then grazes it with his teeth. The sensation shoots straight to my core, and I moan. He switches to the other breast and lavishes it with the same attention, sucking and licking until I’m writhing beneath him.
“Menlow.” I tug at his hair, trying to pull him up, but he resists.
“Not yet.” He kisses his way down my stomach, pausing to trace the curve of my waist with his tongue. “I want to taste every inch of you first.”
He wasn’t kidding. He spends what feels like hours mapping my body with his mouth. The dip of my navel. The jut of my hipbone. The sensitive skin just below my belly button. He nips at the crease where my thigh meets my hip, and I nearly come off the bed.
“Please.” The word escapes before I can stop it.
“Please what?” He looks up at me, his blue eyes dark with want, his lips curved in a knowing smile.
“You know what.”
He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my underwear and drags them down my legs with excruciating slowness. Once they’re gone, he tosses them aside and settles between my thighs, pressing my legs apart with his broad shoulders.
“I know,” he says, his breath hot against my center. “I just want to hear you say it.”
“Touch me.” The words come out desperate and breathless. “Please.”
He rewards me with a long, slow stroke of his tongue.
I cry out and grab fistfuls of the sheets. He does it again, and again, lapping at me with a focus that makes my toes curl. He finds my clit and circles it, teasing, never giving me quite enough pressure.
“More,” I beg. “God, Menlow, more.”
He obliges. He seals his mouth over that sensitive bundle of nerves and sucks, and I scream. My hips buck against his face, but he pins them down with one strong arm and keeps going. He slides one finger inside me, then two, curling them just right while his mouth continues.
The pleasure builds and builds, coiling tighter with every stroke, every lick, every thrust of his fingers. He adds a third finger, stretching me, filling me, and I’m panting his name like a prayer.
“That’s it,” he mumbles against me, the vibration making me whimper. “Let me hear you.”
I’m right on the edge, so close I can taste it. He curls his fingers again, hitting that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes, and flicks his tongue over my clit at the same time.
“Come for me, Kirsten. Let go.”
I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me in waves, and I cry out. He works me through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks fade, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs. I’m still trembling when he finally lifts his head. His chin is wet, and his eyes are blazing with triumph.
“Good?” he asks.
“You know it was.”
“I like hearing it anyway.” He crawls back up my body and kisses me. I taste myself on his lips, and somehow that only makes me want him more.
