Chapter 39 Cynthie #2
Jack’s hand glides down to my throat, applying the same light pressure that he did that night at the gala, only this time he leans down and catches my hungry little sigh with his mouth.
I’m overwhelmed, surrounded by him. The temperature spikes again, and I clutch desperately at his shirt, clumsy with desire, attempting to undo the buttons with shaking fingers, trying to get my hands on him.
He reaches round my back and finds the zip on my dress, easing it down with slow and torturous care, his fingertips following the line of my spine.
Finally, the dress slips away from my body, a pool of sunshine-colored silk against the tiled floor, and I stand in only my underwear, the scraps of lace that I picked out hoping for this, wanting exactly this.
He steps back to look at me for a long, aching moment.
“Holy shit,” he breathes.
Several random buttons on his shirt are open, and he looks wild, a little out of control, and I love it; I love that I did that to him. I lean back, letting him look, luxuriating in the way his eyes rake over my body.
“I like your house,” I manage on a laugh, trying to regain some equilibrium.
He tilts his head. “You’re going to have to wait for a tour. I have other plans for you.” He holds himself back, keeping distance between us, a question in his gaze.
I’m so turned on I can hardly bear it, my whole body hot and tight with need. “Oh really?” I lick my lips. “That sounds interesting.”
A flicker of relief crosses his face. “Love, you have no idea.” The words rumble through me as he steps forward, picking me up with one arm, and my legs wrap around his waist of their own accord.
I can feel the hard length of him through his trousers, against the thin lace of my underwear, and I roll my hips, sighing with pleasure.
His mouth captures mine once more, and with my body curled around his, he carries me up the stairs like it’s nothing.
When we reach the landing, he kicks open one of the doors.
Honestly, he could be taking me anywhere, because I’m too interested in his mouth and his arms and his chest pressed hard and firm against mine to care.
I have a brief impression of stormy blue walls and high ceilings, before I’m lowered onto an enormous cloud of a bed.
“I’ve thought about this a lot,” Jack says conversationally, dropping to his knees beside the bed as I push myself up on my elbows, looking down at him.
“I’ve thought about this for years.” He picks up my foot and begins to undo the buckle on the strappy sandals I’m still wearing, slipping off one, and then the other, his touch warm and firm.
“I might have thought about it once or twice,” I murmur, falling back and looking blindly up at the ceiling, wondering why the feeling of his hands on the arches of my feet is the most erotic thing to ever happen.
“Mmm,” Jack hums thoughtfully, as his fingers skate up over my calves.
“The last time we did this it was hard and fast.” My breath catches, the mildness in his tone a contrast to the heat of the words as his hands wander higher.
“And I’ve often found myself wondering what it would be like to do things slowly.
What it could be like to really… take my time. ”
He reaches my hips and yanks me toward him, my legs falling over the edge of the bed.
“Jack,” I gasp as he hooks his fingers into the sides of my underwear, slipping them down my legs and baring me to him completely.
“So pretty, Cynthie,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh. “So pretty everywhere.”
“Jack,” I say again, desperate as his mouth moves over me, as his tongue dips and swirls, a feather-light tease. He’s in no hurry at all, and when he blows lightly against my clit I whimper. “Please,” I moan. “Please.”
I feel him smile against me and it’s so hot. “Not yet, love,” he murmurs. “Not for a good while yet.”
And true to his word he teases me, sending me writhing against his cool sheets, bringing me up, up, up, and then pulling back, soothing, running his hands over my quivering limbs, kissing me and tasting me wherever he likes: my hip, my ankle, the back of my knee.
He tells me I’m beautiful, perfect, that I was made for him, that he could stay here for hours.
Every part of me is treated with exquisite care, and I curse like a sailor and pull at his hair, and chase his touch with my hips, almost sobbing with need and frustration as he brings me to the edge again and again.
When he plunges two fingers inside me, his hand and his mouth working me relentlessly, finally allowing my orgasm to come crashing in, it shudders through my body like an act of delicious violence.
I scream, the world exploding around me.
When I finally return to earth, it’s to see him getting slowly to his feet.
He rubs his thumb along his bottom lip, eyes gleaming, hair a mess, and he’s still fully dressed—a situation that cannot be allowed to continue.
“Take your clothes off,” I demand, and the grin that lights his face is wicked. His hands move to his shirt buttons and he follows my instructions, far, far too slowly for my liking. When he is finally, wonderfully naked and he moves toward me, I hold up my hand, halting him in his progress.
“I want to see,” I grind out. He stills, and it’s my turn to take my time.
I come up onto my knees and run my eyes over him, taking in the perfect, masculine grace of his body, the hard planes of his muscles, the impressive erection that has me rubbing my thighs together, already ready for more of him, much more.
I want him with an intensity that I can hardly fathom.
Seeing me squirm, his eyes darken and he grasps the base of his cock, pumping his hand once, slowly, his gaze locked on to mine.
I shuffle forward, pressing my palms to his chest, feeling the warmth of him.
I rub my thumb gently over the tattoo that wasn’t there thirteen years ago, the delicate outline of two twining flames that I first saw during our sweaty workout.
I press my mouth against it as I’d imagined doing then, flick my tongue over the sinuous lines of ink.
He exhales sharply, and I smile against his skin, trailing my fingers down his stomach, covering his hand with my own.
“God, I want you so much,” he says. “I always have.”
“I’m here.” I lie back on the bed. “So take me.”
Our bodies collide, skin against skin, heated, flushed. He’s all over me, all around me, pressing me into the mattress, and his clever fingers are between my legs, and I kiss him, put my mouth on him, everywhere I can reach.
“Condom?” I pant, and he moves, fumbling in the drawer of his bedside table.
The few seconds his body is away from mine are cold and painful, but then he’s back, and I help him put the condom on, only wanting to touch him and tease him as he has done for me, but I can’t wait, don’t want to wait any longer.
We roll over once, twice, until I’m on top of him, straddling him, guiding him inside me with a sigh of pleasure and relief.
He reaches up, undoing the clasp of the bra I had forgotten I was still wearing, throwing it aside.
His fingers play across my sensitive flesh as I ride him, taking him deep inside me where I’ve needed him for so long.
I rock against him, delirious with pleasure as he fills me, as he murmurs more praise, as he says my name over and over and over again like a benediction.
“Oh, god.” I squeeze my eyes closed, another orgasm coiling inside me, a glorious tightening, a pressure so intense I find myself bracing for the fallout.
“I’m going to—” I start, but he curves up, pulling my mouth against his, his hand cradling the back of my head, his fingers in my hair, cutting me off as his hips thrust wildly, a frantic, stuttering rhythm that matches my own loss of control.
He hits the perfect spot, hits it again, and when his thumb circles my clit it’s all I need.
Shuddering, calling his name, drowning in the taste of him, I fall apart.
We both do. Together. An intense feeling of joy spreads through me, sunshine running through my limbs, and I laugh, overwhelmed by the pleasure that shudders in waves and waves and waves.
My whole world tilts on its axis, like everything I thought I knew is rearranging itself.
I have to settle into a new reality now; there’s my life before this moment and my life after.
Turns out sex with Jack is basically a religious experience.
“Are you okay?” I croak, several minutes later. The words are muffled against his chest where I have collapsed, draped bonelessly over his body.
There’s a moment of thoughtful silence. “I think I’ve gone blind,” he says finally.
I lever myself up, far enough to see his face. My discarded bra is draped over his eyes, like a lacy sleep mask. I make the monumental effort to pull it away.
He blinks, his gaze unfocused. “Thanks.”
I fall back onto him, snuggling against his chest. “What do we do now?” I ask, the question slurred.
“We sleep,” he says, rolling us and tucking me tenderly against him. “And then we do that again.”
“Okay,” I murmur, already more than halfway to unconscious. “Sounds like a plan.”