He puffs out a breathy laugh. “What?”
My hips chase his for friction, but still I say, “I can’t have sex wearing socks.”
He chuckles but obliges, kneeling upright to extend one of my legs to rest on his chest. My muscles scream; I make a mental note to take up yoga. He peels one sock off, sending it in the same direction as my underwear.
He kisses my ankle. My calf. My thigh.
Then.
He lifts my hips and drapes my leg over his shoulder.
And there his kiss is, between my thighs, the wet warmth of his tongue all there is.
His mouth might be between my legs, but I feel every lick in the way my heart beats and lungs breathe. He swirls, and he sucks, and I am consumed.
I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull myself as close as I can to his mouth, my back arching off the bed as I do.
He growls against me, and I whimper.
I whimper, and I whimper, and I whimper until the pulses of pleasure turn constant, and I come right in Nash’s mouth with a sock on one foot.
I’m in the middle of seeing stars as his mouth travels up my body. My belly. My ribs. My sternum. My jaw.
He’s above me, then his mouth is on mine. There we are on his tongue.
I laugh, breathless.
“I’ve missed that.”
Between nibbles of my lip, he says, “Not as much as I have,” then reaches toward the nightstand.
I grab his arm and shake my head. It will be a cold day in hell when Nash Fletcher fucks me with a condom.
Even in the dark, his gaze gets hotter.
Back on top of me, lined up and ready, he rubs his nose against mine. “I’ve missed you so damn much, Rue Conway.”
All the pleasure and want in my body morph into an emotion so much more powerful.
There are so many things to say, but not one of them does this feeling justice. Love isn’t big enough. Need isn’t strong enough.
I know I’m crying because Nash wipes my tears away.
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. He knows. He always has.
Our next kiss is unhurried as Nash slides inside me with a single thrust of his hips. I swear from the severity of it. From the oh-so-good stretch to the initial bottoming out.
His forearms on the bed, he hovers over me as my fingernails dig into his back and my legs wrap around his waist.
Then he starts to move, rhythmically gliding in and out of me. “Fuck, Rue,” he whispers. “You feel good.”
So does he.
He shifts his knees, lifting my hips at the perfect angle to take me with a tight grip of my hips. Once again, he’s moving, and the skin-on-skin sounds of us fill the room. Sloppy and delicious.
In ... out ... in ... outturns toin, out, in, outbefore becoming a completely animalisticinoutinoutinoutinoutinout.
His teeth are gritted. He’s close. I’m closer.
