I very much like the sound of that.
“Fuck. You’re gushing.” He circles my clit a few times before inserting a finger, then a second.
They slide in easily, I’m so wet. It feels amazing, but not exactly what I need. Reaching down, I press the heel of his hand against my clit. “Ahh, like that,” I tell him when he hits the right spot. “Pressure there.” He finds a rhythm that has my thighs quivering as they wrap around his hips. I lift my hips to meet his hand, and we’re moving faster and faster as my stomach tightens, and I feel like a bowstring about to snap.
Shit, this is happening so fast. Too fast. I wanted to explore him too. I wanted to study the details of the black grim reaper tattoo that covers his left pec, to trace every white scar with my tongue, and palm his dick through his sweatpants until he begged me to stop. I wasn’t planning on this being all about me.
I reach down between us, beneath the hem of his boxer briefs, but he pushes my hand away. “No,” he grunts against my neck through panting breaths. “Later.”
As soon as the word leaves his mouth, he curls his fingers into a hook shape, and I’m barreling off the edge of a cliff, shaking and crying out into the early morning light as if someone is murdering me. He may as well have. As far as my pussy is concerned, it’s dead, ruined for all other men.
When I come down, I’m still struggling to catch my breath and Dominic is smiling with his hand held up.
“What?” I ask. Then I see it. From the tips of his fingers down to his elbow, he’s soaked. Dripping, in fact.
The fuck? How can all ofthatbe from me?
“Have you ever squirted before?”
I lean up on my elbows to get a better look. “Is that what happened? Jesus Christ.”
“I’ll take that as a no.” Then he glides his tongue up his forearm to the tips of his fingers, savoring every last drop of me with a gleam in his eye.
I shove his chest hard enough to roll us over until I’m on top of him. His hands settle on my hips, one of them very distinctly wet. Not gonna lie, I’m annoyed my body did something I didn’t think it could and I didn’t even get to witness it. On the other hand, it’s hard to stay mad when I have a man the size of a tree beneath me just waiting to be played with.
His hands move up to my belly, and he proceeds to gently squeeze and cup my rolls with the purest adoration I’ve ever seen shining from his eyes. “I love your stomach,” he says, continuing his tour of my body. His finger traces the horizontal scar just below my lower abs. “Is this a C-section scar?”
I nod. “I thought I’d be able to deliver her naturally, but they decided to cut me open instead.”
He runs his fingers along the raised uneven skin once, twice more, and I feel the sting of tears forming behind my eyes. I’m not sure if it’s the memory of how scared I was at the time, or because no one has ever touched that scar before, not even Billy, but I have to turn away to keep Nic from seeing.
I take a breath, and once I push the tears down, I return my attention to him. His body. His scars. This is about him now. “Is there a special meaning behind this tattoo?” I ask, drawing a bubble around the reaper’s scythe with my finger.
“A reminder that I’ve met him before, and whenever he returns, I won’t fear him.” He looks down at it. “A little on the nose, I know, but I wanted to celebrate my recovery with a tattoo, so this is what I got.”
“I love it.” I reach up to touch the white scar beneath his left eye. It’s bigger than a lot of his other scars, I’ve noticed. “How’d you get this one?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Don’t remember. When I started coming back to myself, it was an open wound that had just started healing. Took a long time.”
“You never asked the doctor?”
“Nah. Didn’t want to know.”
I can understand. After surviving what he did, some things are better left unknown. To keep the sad memories from creeping in, I lean down until my chest is pressed against his and start inching backward. The moment he realizes what my plan is, his cheeks darken.
“You don’t have to.” He lets out a shuddered breath as I trace his abs with my finger, the muscles tightening all the way down to that delicious deep V shape directing me to the main event.
“But I want to.”
He jolts to a seated position when I pull down his boxer briefs, the movement so lightning fast I almost fall off the bed. “Uh, I should explain.”
When I look down, I don’t understand what I’m seeing. “What, um…” How do I put this respectfully, without him feeling like a science experiment?
“This is another way my body has changed.”
It explains a lot, but not enough. “You grew a second dick?” I don’t mean to sound so taken aback, but I can’t help it. It’sthatjarring.
“No, not exactly.”
