“The only thing I think about when I masturbate is you, and I don’t even need a vibrator, all I need is my hand.”
“Fuck.” Deacon closed his eyes as his balls tightened to his body. “It makes it very difficult to just be friends with you when you say things like that.”
He felt the bed shift and when he opened his eyes, he saw Jenna had turned her body slightly towards him. It was a subtle move, but one that couldn’t be ignored, at least not by him.
“No one said friends couldn’t have benefits.” She grinned. “In fact, I think there’s famously a phrase calledfriends with benefits.”
Deacon’s chest was rising and falling in rapid pants as he tried to get his body under control.
“Is that what you want? Because I need to hear you say it.”
“Hmm, I’m in a show-not-tell mood.” Jenna rolled over with catlike confidence and grace, knee and thigh pressing into the mattress and then over his legs, straddling and pinning him beneath her.
Deacon stared up at her, the faint gold flicker of the fireplace illuminating her beautiful face. His hands automatically moved to her bare thighs as she ground her hips against him. He found himself helpless in the best possible way as Jenna’s hair fell over her eyes, her lips quirked in that wicked, knowing smile. She pressed a palmto his bare chest and dug her nails into his skin. The sting sent a primitive signal through his body.
He tensed as she raked her nails down his ribcage, the scrape delicious and cruel before she hooked her fingers in his waistband, dragging down his boxer-briefs and sweats with ruthless purpose. The air hit his hardened length and the cool rush of anticipation that sent his pulse hammering in his ears. She tugged them both all the way down his legs before her gaze flicked up, unabashed and greedy, and then she dipped her head and took him in her mouth.
Jenna’s lips created a suction as her tongue worked a kind of sorcery on him, wet and warm and relentless. Her hand circled at the root, squeezing with force that had him lifting off the mattress. She licked him like she meant to undo him, slow at first and then a little faster, teasing his sensitive underside until he nearly lost himself entirely. Deacon’s hand shot out, gripping the edges of the mattress. He looked down at her, her dark lashes fanned against her cheek, her little sighs of satisfaction vibrating up his spine.
He could feel his orgasm building, a tidal wave gathering force, and just before it broke, he pulled at her shoulder, gently, but with a desperation that surprised even him. Jenna released him with a soft pop, her lips swollen, her smile triumphant. He tried to pull her up to him, but she was already moving, peeling off her own shirt in a fluid motion, breasts bared and nipples tight in the chill.
She shimmied out of her panties—white lace that he had the strongest urge to rip—and straddled his thighs again, both hands planted firmly on his chest. For a moment, she just looked at him, and Deacon felt the weight of her gaze much deeper than just her eyes looking at his. She saw him. His soul. Her hand slid down his abs, between their bodies, and gripped his shaft as she rose up and lined his tip with her slick entrance. Using themushroom of his head, she spread the arousal that was coating her entrance then she sank down on top of his crown.
Her inner walls immediately clamped down around him like a Venus flytrap and his entire body lit up like a fucking slot machine winning the jackpot. He realized then he didn’t have on protection. No barrier between them. He’d never had unprotected sex before. Never. Women had tried, and he refused, but this was what he wanted. He didn’t want anything between them.
He watched where their bodies were intimately joined as she eased down slowly, inch by inch, her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as he filled her. She didn’t slam down or tease, just lowered onto him with exquisite, slow precision until she was flush against his body, her head tilting back, a long, shaky breath escaping her as her body accepted him.
Deacon’s own body knotted so tight he thought he’d break in two. Every muscle was taut, the urge to take over, to flip her and drive into her until they both shattered, nearly overwhelming. But Jenna set the pace, rocking her hips in slow, greedy circles. Her thighs bracketed his torso, and every time she rocked forward, she squeezed him and somehow coaxed him in even deeper. He tried to focus on his breathing, on the flickering fire, on anything but the way she felt, but it was useless.
He moved his hands to her waist, then up to her bare breasts, thumbing her nipples. She leaned into his touch, moaning as his thumbs circled her puckered flesh, and arched her back so her breasts brushed his lips. He took one into his mouth, sucked until she gasped, and then did it again, delighting in the way her canal clenched around his shaft.
The sight of her—hair wild, body flushed, head thrownback—was almost too much. He marveled at her control, the way she chased pleasure, her need and delight written in every movement.
He let himself go slack beneath her, resting his hands on her hips as he surrendered for the first time in his life. Jenna was in total control, and he realized with a sudden clarity that he loved it. Not just the physical part, the technical mastery of her body, the pressure and friction and heat, but also the soul connection, the sensations moving between them. The tingling ebbs and flows.
She began to pick the pace up, faster, harder, and he watched, mesmerized. One hand gripped the wrist of the hand holding her left hip, the other covered his right hand and shifted it between her thighs. Just like she had in the truck, she used his touch for her carnal needs and base desires, his erotic puppeteer, and he loved it. He loved being a conduit of pleasure.
With this angle, instead of his fingers, she made use of his thumb, rubbing the roughened pad against her swollen clit as she rode him. They both watched as she played her own body, using him as an instrument for her pleasure, until he felt her inner walls begin to pulse around his shaft as her stomach clenched and she coated his cock in her release.
His eyes lifted to watch her face, memorizing every second, every catch of breath, unfiltered look of abandon, and finally, total and complete satisfaction.
Just as her body began to relax, he wrapped his arm around her waist and flipped her onto her back so he was hovering above her, still buried deep inside of her.
She lay beneath him, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in pants, lips curling at the edges, looking happy, peaceful, safe, and loved. It was how he wanted to make her feel, to make her be, for the rest of her life. But hecouldn’t tell her that. At least not with words. He guessed it was his turn to play show not tell.
Jenna’s first orgasm left her shattered, soft, the edges of her mind blurred and weightless. She lay back, boneless, her vision kaleidoscoped by aftershocks, and Deacon hovered above her—still inside her, still hard, his body trembling with the effort of restraint. He braced himself on an elbow and traced her jaw with his hand, thumb brushing over lips swollen and slick from his kisses.
He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, his mouth reverent and almost chaste except for the darkness burning in his eyes. Every feather-light press of his lips sent new shivers through the soft, over-sensitized flesh between her legs, where he still filled her. She loved the way he cradled her face, as if she were precious, breakable, a secret no one else could ever know. It was almost more than she could stand.
He moved lower, mapping her face like he was memorizing every contour, before moving down to her collarbone, her throat. He nuzzled the hollow of her neck, inhaling her scent as if it were the air he needed to live. She felt herself melting under the attention, felt her heart thud at the fantasy that she had become vital to this man.
His entire lower body was still, except for the deep, involuntary pulses of his shaft inside her—each throb sending a ripple of fresh arousal through her, as if their bodies were in silent communication, orchestrating the pace of the night.
He trailed kisses down across her chest until he reached her breasts. He worshipped them, his lips gentle at first, then rougher, sucking and licking and finally givingin to his teeth when she arched into him, hungry for more. She tangled her hands in his hair, tugging him closer, not caring that she seemed desperate or that each whimper of need left her throat raw.
He took his time, moving from one breast to the other, licking the salt of her sweat from her skin, watching her with a look that was equal parts awe and possession. His hands followed his mouth, stroking and cupping, kneading her flesh and teasing her nipples until she was sure she would combust. She was still riding the afterglow of her first climax, but already the pressure was building again, a slow, inexorable climb that made her muscles tense and her thoughts dissolve.
He stayed inside her the whole time, never breaking the connection. She had never understood that phrase before—making love—but now she did. It was the way his body always seemed to find hers, the way their limbs fell together naturally, the way she felt him in every part of her, even before he touched her. With every shift of his hips, every subtle flex, she felt his desire for her, felt the way he tried to hold himself back, to give her time to recover. It made her ache in ways she didn’t know were possible.
