He made a sound low in his chest, his hands finding my waist and pulling me flush against him. I could feel him hard against my belly, and the knowledge that I’d done that to him made heat pool between my thighs.
My hands found the hem of his shirt, and I tugged upward. He helped, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside.
Green skin. Muscles. Scars I wanted to trace and ask about later. I pressed my palms against his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing under my touch.
“Your turn,” he said.
I tugged my own shirt off, a bit self-conscious. I hadn’t slept with anyone in a very long time. What if I wasn’t good at this anymore? What if I made weird noises or couldn’t?—
“You’re thinking too loud,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s been a while.”
Understanding crossed his face. “How long?”
“Two years. Maybe three.”
“That’s a long time.”
“I know. I just—what if I’m bad at this now? What if I’ve forgotten how?—”
He kissed me, slow and thorough. “You’re not going to be bad at this.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You don’t do anything partway.” His hands found the clasp of my bra, unhooking it easily. “And I’m going to make sure you enjoy every second of it.”
The bra fell away. His gaze dropped, and the expression on his face made my insecurities quiet.
“Gorgeous,” he said. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.”
He cupped my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples. I gasped, arching into his touch.
“That’s it,” he said. “Stop thinking. Just feel.”
He guided me backward until my legs hit the bed. I sat, and he knelt in front of me, his hands going to the waistband of my jeans.
“May I?” he asked.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He unbuttoned them slowly, his knuckles brushing my belly. When he tugged them down my legs, he took my underwear along with them, leaving me completely bare in front of him. He still wore his jeans. Somehow that made this hotter.
He pressed a kiss to my inner thigh, his breath warm. “Lie back.”
I did, propping myself up on my elbows to watch him.
He kissed his way up my thigh. When his mouth finally reached where I needed him most, I stopped breathing. The first stroke of his tongue made my hips jerk upward. He did it again.
“I want to taste you,” he said against my skin. “Let me.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, his tongue circling my clit in slow, deliberate strokes. I fell back against the bed, gripping the sheets.
It was too much and not enough. He was taking his time, learning what I liked, adjusting based on the sounds I made. When I gasped, he did it again. When I moaned, he changed the angle.
He slid a finger inside me, then another, pumping slowly while his tongue worked, reminding me of where we’d left off in my office today and where we were going next.
The dual sensation made my thighs tremble.
