He grins. One slow finger trails down my sternum, between my breasts to my belly button. “You’re so soft.”
And he is so,sohard. It’s straining against his boxer briefs. I’d almost forgotten that morning after Oktoberfest, the hint of his size. There’s no hiding it now. When I realize I’m staring, I jerk my gaze toward his face instead. He cups my neck and kisses me again, nudging me back toward the bed.
My calves meet the soft cotton comforter, and Asher’s hand glides from my neck, over my nipple, to my thigh. There is no hesitation or uncertainty. He may have confessed some insecurities to me once upon a time, but this manknowshe’s good at this. My body moves of its own accord, seeking friction, which draws a smile across his mouth.
It isn’t his normal smile. No. This one’s predatory. It unwinds the last of my sanity. “Say please again, Jocelyn,” he says. “Beg me for it.”
I’m no longer human. I’m a creature of want and heat and liquid pleasure.
He isn’t just good at this. He’s on another plane entirely.
“Please,” I whisper.
With the faintest pressure, his hand slips between my legs, and I can’t stop the sigh that flees my lungs. My head falls back, and he hums against my throat, but the touch is too soft, too gentle.
“Asher,” I whine. “Come on. More.”
“You want more?”
I nod, frantic.
His mouth touches mine, and finally, he grazes the exact right place. He needs no instruction, no hints. Confident fingers stroke the sparkly nerves like he’s already memorized what my body wants.
My fingernails curl into his shoulders, gripping tight. Hemoves faster, and bursts of pleasure spark through my abdomen, down my thighs. My knees threaten to buckle, so I cling to him, then gasp when he slides two digits deep inside.
He sucks in a breath. “Fuck, Jocelyn. You’re—”
Wet as the ocean outside?
Yeah, I know.
I have no time to think of a reply because he retracts his hand, reaches behind my knees and lifts me again. I stare at him, face-to-face, barely coherent. One kiss to my lips, and he throws me on the bed. Hands grasp my ankles and tug until he has me positioned how he wants, then they slide to my knees.
He spreads them wide.
Kisses my ankle.
Calf.
Knee.
Up.
Up.
His mouth is sinful. Wicked. Perfect. And he knows how to use it, teasing and baiting until he has me begging exactly the way he wants. Fear doesn’t exist in this space he’s taken me. The world shrinks to smeared blues and greens, the scent of his cologne, the fever of his skin, the minutes upon minutes of unadulterated pleasure that builds and abates, swells and recedes, grows and fades.
His tongue. Edging me to paradise.
When it hits, I can’t breathe. I can’t see. I cease to exist in my current form and rise to something higher.
Coming down doesn’t compute. Still tingling, the waves of pleasure crashing with each movement, I scramble out from beneath him and rip his boxers off. He rolls obediently to his back, and I climb on top of him.
And lose my Asher-virginity.
It is so much better than I imagined.
The slide. The fit. The rhythm.
