Chapter 20 #2
He took his time. His tongue flicked and swirled and his lips pulled and when he used his teeth, gentle but intentional, just enough pressure to make my spine arch off the bed.
I gasped so hard I forgot to breathe. He did it again.
Harder. And the sound that left me was closer to a cry than anything resembling composure.
He moved to the other side. Same maddening pace.
Same devastating attention. His tongue drawing circles that made my hips lift and my thighs clench.
He cupped the breast his mouth had just left, his thumb rolling over the wet, sensitized skin, and the combination of his hand on one side and his mouth on the other was so much that my body arched into him and I whimpered.
His groan against my skin told me he was enjoying this as much as I was.
“Christopher.” I meant it as a sentence. It came out as a plea.
He looked up at me from where his mouth was pressed against my ribs. Those blue eyes, dark in the dim light, and the expression in them was so focused, so intent, that I felt it in waves. .
His hands were everywhere after that. My waist, my ribs, the dip of my spine where his fingertips traced patterns that made me shiver.
He kissed a trail down my stomach, his lips hot and unhurried, his tongue dipping into my navel and making me squirm.
His hands slid back up to my breasts, cupping them, kneading, his thumbs teasing my nipples while his mouth moved lower, and the dual sensation made my brain go blank.
I existed only in the places where his skin touched mine.
His palm skimmed up the outside of my thigh, over my hip, along the curve of my waist, and then back down, and I was trembling under his hands.
When his fingers found the inside of my thigh, my breath left me in a rush.
He paused. His thumb drew a slow circle on my skin, teasing, testing, watching my face for the reaction.
I gave it to him. I couldn’t help it. My hips rose toward his hand and a sound left my mouth that was embarrassing and honest. But I didn’t care about being embarrassed anymore.
His fingers moved higher. Slowly. Tracing the crease where my thigh met my hip, close, yet not close enough, and I made a sound that was half frustration and half plea.
“Please,” I whispered.
“Please what?” His voice was rough velvet against my inner thigh where his mouth had followed his hands.
“Touch me.”
He did. And the sound I made when his fingers finally found me was loud enough that I would have been mortified in any other moment. But I had no brain cells left to feel shame. They’d evacuated somewhere around the time his tongue circled my breasts and they hadn’t come back.
He watched my face while his hand worked. Studied every reaction with total focus, adjusting when I gasped, pressing when I arched, finding a rhythm that matched my breathing and then breaking it just to hear the noise I made when he changed pace.
He was learning me.
Memorizing what made me moan and what made me grip the sheets. What made my thighs tighten around his hand, and he used every piece of information with ruthless control.
“You’re sure?” he asked one more time, his voice rough, his hand still.
I answered by pulling him back down to me and kissing him until neither of us could think.
He undressed me the rest of the way with hands that were steady but not calm. I reached for his waistband because I was done being the only one exposed and he let me, lifting his hips so I could push the fabric down. The feeling of him against me with nothing between us made both of us go still.
Just breathing. Just feeling.
Every barrier was gone. Skin to skin, nothing between us.
“Miley.” My name in his mouth like something sacred, like a form of devotion.
“I’m here,” I whispered, my fingers in his hair and my lips against his temple. “I’m right here.”
He moved into me slowly. So slowly. The breath I drew was sharp and full.
The feeling was so complete, so overwhelming, that my eyes closed and my fingers dug into his shoulders and for a long moment neither of us moved.
We just breathed. Together. Forehead to forehead.
His body inside mine. His heartbeat against my chest. The rain against the windows.
The world reduced to two people in a bed, becoming something neither of us had planned.
Then he moved, and I moved with him. And whatever had been holding us apart for weeks dissolved like sugar in warm water.
His rhythm was slow at first, his eyes on mine, watching every expression that crossed my face. He read me as carefully as he read everything else, except this time what he was reading was my pleasure, and his response to it was immediate and undisguised.
When I gasped, his pace shifted. When I arched into him, his grip on my hip tightened and his breath stuttered. When I whispered his name, he groaned against my neck and the sound vibrated through my entire body. It made me wanna hear it again and again.
His mouth found my breast again while he moved inside me and the double sensation made me cry out.
My hand flew to the back of his head, and held him there while my fingers twisted in his hair.
He groaned against my skin, low and broken, and his hips drove deeper in response to the noise I made.
We fell into a rhythm that was less choreography and more conversation, his body asking questions mine answered without thinking.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him closer.
He gave me more. One hand gripped the headboard above me. The other was on my thigh, pulling me closer, adjusting the angle, and when he found it, the right angle, the perfect one, I made a sound that would have been humiliating in any other context but here was exactly right.