Jocelyn #3
He did? I can’t catch my breath. My heart pounds in a painful, erratic rhythm. I splay my hands over the sharp planes of his
chest and drag them down, pliant skin over toned muscle. “I used to wonder what it would feel like to do this.”
“And?”
“And I want to touch more.”
He grins. One slow finger trails down my sternum, between my breasts to my belly button. “You’re so soft.”
And he is so, so hard. It’s straining against his boxer briefs. I’d almost forgotten that morning after Oktoberfest, the hint of his size.
There’s no hiding it now. When I realize I’m staring, I jerk my gaze toward his face instead. He cups my neck and kisses me
again, nudging me back toward the bed.
My calves meet the soft cotton comforter, and Asher’s hand glides from my neck, over my nipple, to my thigh. There is no hesitation
or uncertainty. He may have confessed some insecurities to me once upon a time, but this man knows he’s good at this. My body moves of its own accord, seeking friction, which draws a smile across his mouth.
It isn’t his normal smile. No. This one’s predatory. It unwinds the last of my sanity. “Say please again, Jocelyn,” he says.
“Beg me for it.”
I’m no longer human. I’m a creature of want and heat and liquid pleasure.
He isn’t just good at this. He’s on another plane entirely.
“Please,” I whisper.
With the faintest pressure, his hand slips between my legs, and I can’t stop the sigh that flees my lungs. My head falls back,
and he hums against my throat, but the touch is too soft, too gentle.
“Asher,” I whine. “Come on. More.”
“You want more?”
I nod, frantic.
His mouth touches mine, and finally, he grazes the exact right place. He needs no instruction, no hints. Confident fingers
stroke the sparkly nerves like he’s already memorized what my body wants.
My fingernails curl into his shoulders, gripping tight. He moves faster, and bursts of pleasure spark through my abdomen, down my thighs. My knees threaten to buckle, so I cling to him, then gasp when he slides two digits deep inside.
He sucks in a breath. “Fuck, Jocelyn. You’re—”
Wet as the ocean outside?
Yeah, I know.
I have no time to think of a reply because he retracts his hand, reaches behind my knees and lifts me again. I stare at him,
face-to-face, barely coherent. One kiss to my lips, and he throws me on the bed. Hands grasp my ankles and tug until he has
me positioned how he wants, then they slide to my knees.
He spreads them wide.
Kisses my ankle.
Calf.
Knee.
Up.
Up.
His mouth is sinful. Wicked. Perfect. And he knows how to use it, teasing and baiting until he has me begging exactly the
way he wants. Fear doesn’t exist in this space he’s taken me. The world shrinks to smeared blues and greens, the scent of
his cologne, the fever of his skin, the minutes upon minutes of unadulterated pleasure that builds and abates, swells and
recedes, grows and fades.
His tongue. Edging me to paradise.
When it hits, I can’t breathe. I can’t see. I cease to exist in my current form and rise to something higher.
Coming down doesn’t compute. Still tingling, the waves of pleasure crashing with each movement, I scramble out from beneath
him and rip his boxers off. He rolls obediently to his back, and I climb on top of him.
And lose my Asher-virginity.
It is so much better than I imagined.
The slide. The fit. The rhythm.
We are made for each other.
And I’m still so sensitive that it takes only a minor provocation with his precise fingers to shatter me all over again. His
cocky little chuckle at my second climax is the hottest fucking thing he’s ever done. I’m uncoordinated and orgasm-drunk,
so he takes over.
He rolls me to my back and nuzzles into my neck. “That feel good?”
“I’m dead.” I throw my arms above me.
“Don’t worry.” His hands slide up my arms, fingers lacing with mine. “I’ll revive you.”
“Shit,” Asher mutters against my neck. I startle from my Lucy in the Sky level disorientation and turn my face toward him.
He rises to his elbows, and I already miss the weight of him. “I didn’t use a condom.”
I instinct-panic for two seconds, my eyes going wide, before I remember—“I have an IUD.”
“Oh.” He collapses on top of me again. “Thank fuck.”
“Wait. Did you bring condoms?”
His laugh rumbles against me. “No. This wasn’t really on my radar.”
I scratch my nails down his back, extracting a soft groan from him. “Bit of a surprise on my end, too.” Though I definitely
have condoms. I always have condoms. I’ve never forgotten to use a condom. I’ve never had sex without a condom. Not once.
Even after I got my IUD. That is how responsible I am.
Asher is the first.
He has me so muddled that I’m forgetting basic tenets of safety like a moron. Ignoring bright red, flashing warning signs all over the place.
Oh, god.
What have I done?
I can’t— I can’t undo this. Can’t rewind. Can’t erase. The familiar fear of drowning raises its head, growls and swipes vicious
talons through the tentative, budding warmth in my unguarded heart, tearing it to shreds. Dread washes over the jagged remains
in a great tidal wave. The washout leaves only frost, creeping a slow path through my veins.
What is this feeling? It’s horrifying. Awful. Somehow beautiful and terrible all at once, like a rose in a graveyard. Innocence surrounded
by destruction.
Then he kisses me.
Kisses my cheek.
My neck.
Down my chest to my breast.
The frost melts, and the sense of security returns. The night expands before us, infinite. Limitless possibilities.
If the first time was a frenzy of pleasure, the second is an ode to savoring, and the third is a playful exploration. The
proof of our chemistry is the boneless heap in which he leaves me each time, waiting for my energy to restore so I can claw
at him for more.
Things will probably look different in the morning, but I’ll deal with that then. Right now, nothing could tear me away from
him. Not the tidal wave. Not the fear. Not even these crumbling walls.