Chapter 6 #2
I pull him through the door. He reaches for my blouse and I let him unbutton it, his fingers faster than I expected, and then it’s off and his hands are on my bare waist and the warmth of his palms on my skin makes me suck in a breath.
I unhook my bra. His eyes drop to my tits and his lips part and I watch his throat work when he swallows.
“Touch me,” I say. “I need you to touch me.”
He cups my breasts in both hands, thumbs dragging over my nipples, and the rough pads of his fingers send a jolt straight to my pussy.
I arch into him. He dips his head and takes my nipple into his mouth and sucks, and I grab the back of his head and hold him there because his mouth is hot and wet and the pull of it goes all the way down.
He sucks harder, his tongue flicking, and I moan — a real, unguarded sound that I couldn’t stop if I wanted to, and I don’t want to.
He moves to the other side. Licks, then bites — just enough to sting — and I gasp and my fingers curl in his hair.
He’s making low, appreciative sounds against my skin, and every vibration goes through me.
His hand slides down my stomach and into my jeans and his fingers press against me through my underwear.
“Fuck,” I breathe, because his fingers feel so good even through the fabric — rubbing slow, pressing against my clit — and my hips jerk into his hand. He groans against my tit.
He drops to his knees. Pulls my jeans down, then my underwear, and I step out of them and I’m naked and he’s still dressed and on his knees and looking up at me with dark eyes behind those sexy glasses, and the sight makes me throb.
He puts his mouth on my pussy and I grab his hair with both hands.
His tongue is broad and slow at first — long strokes, bottom to top — and I’m so sensitive that I jolt at every pass.
Then he focuses on my clit, licking in tight, fast circles, and my head drops back and my thighs start shaking.
He pushes two fingers inside me and I clench around them immediately — I’m so wet I can hear it, his fingers sliding in and out while his tongue works my clit, and the sound and the feel of it together are making me lose my mind.
“Oh God — right there, keep going — “
He keeps going. He curls his fingers forward, stroking something inside me that makes my knees want to buckle, and his tongue doesn’t stop — relentless, precise, reading every twitch of my hips and adjusting.
I’m panting. I’m gripping his hair hard enough to hurt and he doesn’t pull away, just presses deeper, his mouth sealed over my clit, sucking and licking, and I feel the orgasm building fast, tightening, a coil winding tighter and tighter.
I come with a cry that I don’t try to muffle. It tears through me — my whole body clenching, my thighs clamping around his head, my hands fisted in his hair — and he holds me up, his hands gripping my hips, his mouth still on me, slower now, easing me through it while I shake.
He stands. His mouth is wet and his glasses are fogged and I pull him in by the belt and kiss him. I taste myself on his lips and it’s filthy and intimate and I want more. I want everything.
I undo his belt. Unzip his jeans. Shove them down with his boxers and wrap my hand around his cock.
He’s thick and hard and hot in my fist and the sound he makes — a sharp hiss through his teeth — goes straight through me.
I stroke him, slow, my thumb circling the head where he’s already slick, and his hips push into my grip.
“I need you to fuck me,” I say.
He reaches for me but I push him. Both hands on his chest, backward, and he hits the mattress.
I climb on top of him. Straddle his hips, his cock pressed between us, and I grind against it — sliding my wet pussy along the length of him — and we both groan.
The friction is perfect, the head of his cock dragging against my clit every time I roll my hips forward, and I do it again, and again, getting us both slick and desperate.
“Sophie — “ His hands are on my thighs, fingers digging in. “Fuck, I need — “
I reach between us. Line him up. And I sink down.
The stretch makes me gasp. He fills me completely — thick, deep, almost too much — and I hold still with him buried inside me, my hands flat on his chest, feeling him pulse. His jaw is tight. His hands grip my hips. His cock twitches inside me and the feeling sends sparks through my whole body.
I start to move. Slow at first, rising and falling, feeling every inch of him slide out and push back in.
His hands tighten on my hips, not guiding — holding on.
His eyes are locked on me, watching me ride him, watching my tits move with every stroke, and the way he’s looking at me — like I’m wrecking him, like he can’t believe this is happening — makes me feel powerful and wanted and alive.
I go faster. Plant my hands on his chest and ride him hard, my hips snapping, taking him deep, and when he bottoms out it makes me cry out.
He feels it — his hips buck up to meet mine, driving deeper, and we find a rhythm that’s fast and rough and the bed is slamming against the wall and I don’t care.
“You feel so fucking good,” he says, his voice barely there, and his thumb finds my clit.
He rubs in fast circles while I ride him and the double sensation — his cock filling me, his thumb on my clit — is overwhelming.
I’m going to come again. Already. I can feel it building, hotter and tighter than the first time.
I lean back, change the angle, and his cock hits deeper and I swear.
His free hand grabs my ass, pulling me down onto him harder, and I’m grinding my clit against his thumb and riding his cock and the pleasure is everywhere — thick, liquid, consuming.
My thighs are burning. I don’t slow down.
I fuck him harder, chasing it, and he’s moaning under me, his head tipped back, the glasses crooked, his stomach muscles tight.
“Come for me,” he says, low and rough, and that’s what does it — his voice breaking on the words, the raw need in it.
I come so hard I stop breathing. My pussy clenches tight around his cock and I hear myself make a sound that’s somewhere between a scream and a gasp, and he grabs my hips and thrusts up into me — fast, desperate, his rhythm breaking — and then he’s coming too, his hands bruising on my hips, a groan ripping out of him that I feel everywhere.
I collapse forward onto his chest. His heart is hammering under my ear.
We’re both soaked in sweat and breathing like we just sprinted somewhere.
His cock is still inside me, softening, and I don’t move because I don’t want to lose the feeling yet — the closeness, the warmth, the solid weight of another person under me who isn’t going anywhere.
His hand comes up and pushes the hair off my face. His fingers are gentle. The contrast — rough hands, gentle touch — makes my chest ache in a way that takes my breath away.
I lift my head. Look at him. The glasses are still on. Fogged. Crooked. His hair is destroyed. He looks like a man who has been thoroughly, comprehensively used, and he looks happy about it.
I start laughing.
Not the stakeout laugh that came with guilt.
Not any laugh I’ve had in the past two months, because every single one had something underneath it — bitterness, grief, the sharp awareness that I shouldn’t be enjoying anything.
This one is clean. This is just a woman in bed with a man she chose, who kept his glasses on through the whole thing and told her to come for him like it was the most important assignment of his career.
“What,” he says.
“The glasses.”
“You told me to leave them on.”
“I didn’t, actually. You just never took them off. But I like your slutty little glasses.”
“Noted,” he grins, pulling me close against his body. Fuck, this feels good, fucking and laughing and happiness.
I press my face into his chest and grin. A real grin. Nothing underneath it.
His hand finds mine. I let him hold it.
I’m done grieving. I’m ready for the next phase of my life.