46. Fallingforyou #3
pressing me flush against his lap
until I feel the tremor rip through him,
then burn up my back.
His other hand slides warm
up the side of my thigh,
a slow climb higher and higher,
taking my skirt up with it.
Until it’s bunched around my waist.
But it’s worse everywhere else,
all the places he’s not touching,
every cold inch of my skin
leaning into him,
missing him,
reaching for him,
starving for his fingers,
wanting to be wanted by him too.
My body’s crying out:
I am nothing if not touched by you.
His fingers curl into the back of my head, and he palms my ass, grinding me down across his erection, making me feel the ridge of his cock straining in his jeans.
My thighs squeeze tight to keep from soaking my panties, but it’s useless, the warmth pools between my thighs.
He feels it, and his inhale catches.
My hand falls to his waistband,
eager to slip under the hem of his shirt,
feel his skin, his stomach, his hips,
but before I get the chance,
he stops me, snatching my wrist,
and hauling me against his chest.
Our lips bump and brush together, the taste of Coke and cinnamon gum on his breath—sweet, dark syrup, spice, spit.
It’s tempting, sinful.
When I dip closer for more, his fingers curl into my hair, and he tugs me back before I can have a taste.
He gives a slow shake of his head—a no, a reminder: you signed all rights to touch and kiss me away…
The loss of it hits me,
an ache in my chest.
I drop my head and suck in a breath,
hating myself in the moment for it.
When I look back into his eyes again, the tunnel lights flicker in his dark, heavy gaze—gold, then black.
His fingers skim over my tailbone, then dip under the thin strap of my thong.
Our mouths share the same ragged breath as he drags lower, knuckles sliding under the thin cotton string, the tips of his fingers following the line straight down.
The slow torment shudders through me,
and I can’t fucking take it.
I’m a skinless body in his hands,
drowning in sensation.
And when two fingers drag over the wet heat of my entrance, I choke on a moan, my body curling into him, falling into the crook of his neck.
Right there, he circles the rim,
barely pressing inside.
It makes me reach for more.
My nails bite into the leather, and I grind across his cock again, craving friction. The corner of his mouth twitches into a smug smirk.
Then it’s all a desperate mess:
he slides my panties aside
and sinks between my sticky lips,
spreading me warmer, wetter,
fingers licking my throbbing entrance—
once, twice,
teasing before he pushes two inside,
and lightning strikes hot inside me.
My breath shatters against his lips.
His breath breaks rough onto mine.
Then he sinks in the seat, head tipping back, eyes half-shut, hips lifting into my pussy, guiding my clit to rub the edge of his jeans as he fucks his fingers into me to the knuckle.
My moan melts against his mouth.
His comes back ragged, harsh,
pouring hot down my throat.
But each time my lips brush his,
he jerks me back, cruel as fuck like—
nah, baby—can’t have that.
I whimper.
So his fingers bury deeper,
fuck into me harder.
His other hand leaves my hair
and falls to my waist,
where he guides my hip down,
grinding my pussy along his length.
I feel the heat of him through his clothes.
It’s splitting me in half,
one part of me dying for his mouth,
the other dying for his cock.
My clit scrapes his soaked jeans,
catches at the lip of his head,
licking the end of every nerve,
again and again.
I clutch the headrest, taking every delicious stroke he feeds me.
The pleasure it ignites doesn’t rush.
It swims slow,
tiny shocks crawling under my skin,
stretching me wide from the inside out.
The windows fog up around us.
The hum of the engine vibrates the seat.
Through him.
Into me.
Sweat beads on his lip
as he grinds me closer,
my mouth skims his,
tasting the little of him I can.
He looks undone and gorgeous,
eyes hooded, lashes wet, hair damp,
sweat dripping down his temple,
his throat.
My thighs squeeze tight around his fingers as he drags them against my walls. “Fuck,” I cry, my head falling into his neck.
There, I suck the sweat off his neck,
lick the salt off his skin,
feel his pulse kick against my teeth,
and when his thumb slips through my slit and finds my clit,
my head tips back with a gasp.
His mouth chases the sound, his lips sliding down the line of my throat.
My mouth opens—
his name right there,
but it breaks on a breath.
He knows. Can taste it on my skin.
“C’mon,” he murmurs against my throat. “You know who’s doin’ this to you.”
His mouth crawls to mine,
drifts over my lips.
“Say it,” he rasps into my mouth,
as if he’s saying—
Tonight I’m breaking you apart,
not the other way around.
“Andrew,” I choke out,
his name ripping from my throat,
jagged, airy,
and his smile hits my lips,
pulls the pin on something violent,
a grenade exploding slow,
crawling up from my clit,
spreading everywhere.
My body breaking.
His body catching.
Backseat shaking.
Weightless.
Boneless.
I’m gone.
He’s got me.
And he better never fucking stop.