His fingers move from my arm, pushing into the soft cup of my bra as a groan escapes me, husky and desperate, my nipple pebbling under the attentions of his thumb.
‘Hello, old friends,’ his deep voice rasps.
‘My breasts aren’t your friends, Ben.’ I try for chastisement, though fall short, coming off as girlish and flattered instead.
‘Shush, you’ll hurt their feelings,’ he mumbles, not looking up from where he takes the fullness into his hands as though they have the capacity to be offended or are in need of his protection. ‘Me and these beauties go way back. I remember the year they arrived.’ To emphasise the point, he flicks my nipple with the very point of his tongue, staring up at me through those thick lashes with a look that borders on depraved.
If it’s possible, my nipples stiffen further.
‘You do not,’ I retort a stutter and a little too late.
‘You were seventeen,’ he murmurs, sliding his hands behind me to loosen my functional bra.Without issue.
My cheeks heat at a sudden deluge of memories—the things I googled and subsequently did, all in an effort to get them to grow. As far as cup sizes go, I was barely filling espresso cup for the longest while. How could he even have—
‘They were pretty fucking gorgeous before, perky and so friendly.’
‘Really?’ I scoff, a little embarrassed, a little thrilled, and a lot turned on.
‘So perky they were apt to make their presence known through your T-shirt in the cool kitchen.’
‘You little—’
He quirks a brow as though to say,little? Not even then. ‘But the year you turned seventeen,’ he continues, ‘they were like,hello!’
‘My face is up here, you know,’ I reply, my words coming out as a carefree chuckle.
‘Just give us a moment.’
‘Us?’ I tease. ‘They’re just tissue and subcutaneous—’ My protests halt, words replaced by a carnal groan as Ben lowers his head, bending to suck one stiff nipple into his mouth.
I grasp the countertop, grounding myself before I’m swept away in the sensations of his lips and tongue. The delicious threat of teeth.
‘They’re just what?’ His gaze crawls up my chest with a smug kind of satisfaction.
‘So good,’ I rasp, pushing myself into him as I feed my hands into his sun-kissed hair to contain the sensation.
‘Something we agree on.’
‘W-we should go upstairs, shouldn’t we?’ I mumble because we’re doing this—doingit. Definitely. I refuse to let my mind ruin this for me. I’m unthinking, working purely on how I feel. And what I feel when he smiles against the swell of my flesh before his soft breath blows over the hard peak. As forwherewe’re doing this, he doesn’t answer, at least not with words, as he licks and laves, drawing my pleasure out.
‘I want to fuck them.’ His words are rough, his fingers the same as he grips my breasts, raising them higher and pushing them together.
The noise I make in response? It doesn’t sound like a no.
‘Ben, please.’
‘Please what?’ he demands. ‘Please fuck you? Fuck your creamy tits?’ I’ve never been spoken to like this before and part of me wants to know why—why haven’t I had the pleasure of this kind of baseness in my life before now.Is this what happens when you tie yourself to one man? You aren’t free to experience other tastes and flavours? Other ways it can be?
But my thoughts disintegrate as his hands move to my waist, and he begins pulling at the tie of my scrubs. The baggy cotton falls from my legs almost immediately, and from his expression, you’d think my pale cotton panties were something to be revealed, like the silk cover that reveals a work of art or a piece of exquisite statuary. Ben drops to his heels, the remains of my scrubs and my running shoes pulled from my feet and abandoned to the floor.
I shiver as his breath caresses the soft skin of my thighs and inhale sharply as he presses his face between my legs and inhales.
We’re doing this. We’re really doing this. If my legs hold out.
‘You’re wet.’ His tone is dark and delicious, his words the kind of praise that makes me want to show him, makes me want to step out of my panties and spread my legs. For more of his approval, more of his touch.
‘Is this for me?’ he asks darkly as he presses the knuckle of his index finger against me. Against my pussy. I nod, unable to speak as he works it deeper inside, coating the cotton of my panties in my own slickness as he applies pressure on my clit. The feeling is immense—it’s everything and not enough as I arch my body, forcing the contact harder, chasing my relief. And as all this happens, I can’t help but stare at him. At his thick lashes, his eyes lowered and intent on the triangle between my legs. At the proud thickness of his cock straining between us.
