37. My Gift
37
MY GIFT
Harlow
An hour or so ago, everything felt wrong.
Now, everything about tonight is right once more. From the way Bridger holds my wrists tight to the way he gazes down at my face, sweeps his lips along my neck, asking, “Do you want to ride my cock, honey?”
His mouth.
His beautifully filthy mouth.
I shiver.
I turn wetter, hotter.
Breathless, I answer him with, “I want it all.”
He gives a soft chuckle. “You can have everything, but not all at once.”
I collect my thoughts. “I want you like this,” I confess, looking up at him, his strong arms braced over me, his firm body covering mine. This is my fantasy, and yet… “Only, it’s supposed to feel better if I’m on top of you.”
In a flash, he lets go, shifts to his back, and pulls me over so I’m straddling him. He covers my stomach with his palm. “Mmm. How about you take your time like this? Make sure it feels good,” he says, then travels a hand to my right breast, squeezing. I moan loudly. He groans faintly, then seems to shove off his own desire. “I can touch you,” he says, with another squeeze. “And you find your pace.”
The man loves my tits. And I love watching him play with them, so I help him along, reaching for his other hand, so he can cup and squeeze both.
Like that, I rock gently against his erection, my wetness coating him, a preview of what’s to come.
Most likely, me .
Any second.
I’m that turned on. That aroused. That wound up.
He seems to be too. His eyes go dark. His jaw tightens. He’s a picture of coiled restraint. A man about to snap with lust. And yet, he’s waiting for me. I reach for the nightstand, grapple around for a condom, then hand it to him.
He sits up, opens it.
I can’t take my eyes off him. Seeing him like this makes my throat dry and heart pound.
He rolls on the protection, then holds the base of his cock for me. And…wow.
That’s so wickedly sexy.
So deliciously dirty.
The man I’ve craved for the last year of my life, the man I’ve pictured taking me, is here in my bed. In my home. Under me.
Offering his dick to me like a gift.
Like the present I wished for when I turned twenty-one.
And now, a few months later, I’m unwrapping the present the rest of the way.
I rise up and rub my center against the head of his dick.
Yes, happy birthday to me.
Gripping him, I guide his length to me like I’m his north star tonight. Maybe I’ve been his north star for a while too. The thought stirs wild emotions in me.
Slowly, luxuriously, I sink down on him.
I press my palms to his chest, adjusting to the stretch, the intrusion.
The wonderful, wicked intrusion.
It hurts at first, and the pain stretches to my belly as I adjust to all this…newness.
He reads my reactions as he slides a hand up my chest, to my neck, into my hair. His hand is tender but passionate. “My beautiful woman,” he says, like he can’t take his eyes off me.
If any word could turn me fiery tonight, I wouldn’t have picked that one.
My.
But said in his gravelly voice, with reverence, with lust, that word thrills me.
Tonight, he can be mine.
And now, nothing hurts. The pain washes away, and in its place comes something incredible.
Him and me, moving together.
His hands on my hips, gripping me.
Mine on his chest, owning him.
His eyes roaming over me, adoring me.
Our lips coming together as we kiss while we fuck.
Then, as I lower myself, my breasts pressed to his chest, my fingers in his hair, his hands come down on my ass. Curling around me. Possessively.
So damn possessively. Like his voice, too, urging me on. “Did you picture this?” he asks, calling back to my admission earlier in the day.
“So much.”
“Me too,” he says, hot and urgent.
“Yeah?”
“A few nights ago. A week ago. A month ago,” he rasps out in quick succession, and with each confession, another fire ignites, burning brightly.
He’s wanted me the same way for some time too.
And he shows me with how he fucks me, with deep, passionate thrusts.
I gasp. A sharp, fevered intake of breath as he hits someplace inside me that bathes my brain in pleasure.
We fit perfectly, legs and hips twined, lips and breath tangled. He slides a hand between my thighs, his thumb finding my center, and I’m chasing the climax that’s hunting me down.
My toes curl, and my spine tingles. He looks in my eyes, and the intensity of his gaze is almost too much to bear.
I close my eyes, the world turning black and beautiful as I cry out.
Then, seconds later, his fingers dig into my flesh, and he’s pumping, thrusting, and grunting as he comes undone too.
A few minutes later, after we straighten up, I tense, standing stock-still in the bathroom hallway, expecting him to get dressed, say goodbye, and take off into the night.
But then, his clothes are still wet and hanging on the rack in my bathroom.
I glance at them. “I guess you’re stuck for a little while.”
With a you know it grin, he just laughs. “I’m stuck, Harlow. I’m definitely stuck.”
He slides back into bed with me, his warm, naked body pressed to mine. He’s not staying because he has nothing to wear. He’s staying because there’s no place he’d rather be.
I’m light-headed, buzzed on the new sensations still rippling through my body. I trace my fingers down his chest.
He reaches for my hand, kisses my fingertips. “The shoe you found today?”
I still for a moment, cycling back to this afternoon. Oh, right. The purple Converse. “The one on the sidewalk?”
“Yeah.” He takes a pause, holds my gaze importantly. “It’s not lost. It’s found.”
I try not to read too much into the found .
Truly, I try.
But I fail.