Chapter 14 Sexual Differentiation and Development #2
I reached out and pulled his hands away from his neck, encouraging him to lift his head. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were bright with what looked like frustration. I pressed a kiss to his cheek, unable to help myself, and then another featherlight one to his lips.
He immediately chased my mouth and kissed me back with a hunger I’d never felt from anyone before.
He grabbed me, held me tight, and for a moment, the world spun.
It was dizzying, the way he kissed me. No hesitation, just pure, unfiltered need.
Like he wanted to hide himself in the kiss, escape his feelings.
But I did break away first, gasping for much-needed air.
But I also broke the kiss because my knees felt wobbly and I didn’t trust them to hold my weight if he kept kissing me like that.
I backed him up until his legs met the bed.
He followed where I led, hands grasping on my body.
And when I encouraged him to sit down, he did, eyes never leaving mine.
Straddling his lap felt normal and natural, perhaps because we’d already found ourselves in this position twice. “We’re going to go slow, okay?” I said. “I’ll go real slow. We’re just going to make out.”
He nodded, eyes wide, so full of trust it made my heart ache.
“If at any time you feel uncomfortable, or I’m going too fast, just say—uh—checkmate. Okay?”
Some of the haze of panic cleared from his eyes, replaced by a tiny flare of amused confidence. “Should be easy for you,” I added, “since you say it so often.”
He gave a miniscule smile, finally meeting my gaze fully. There was so much in his face—relief, gratitude, hesitation, concern, and something that looked suspiciously like awe.
Settling more firmly onto his lap, I kept my hands light on his shoulders and kissed him softly, then trailed a line of kisses down his neck, lingering at the pulse that pounded just below his jaw.
He groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest. His fingers dug into my lower back, strong but tentative, as if he were afraid I might break. Or disappear. Or change my mind.
He slid one hand up, slow and hesitant, to the back of my head, threading his fingers through my hair and pulling me back to his mouth. The kiss was again urgent, teeth and tongue, but always gentle. Always careful.
I could feel his hands drifting toward my chest, then diverting at the last moment to my hips, my back. I got the sense that he was strategizing every touch, trying to calculate the optimal sequence.
Pulling back, breathless, I said, “Just do what feels good. You don’t have to plan every move. I want you, okay? And I’ll tell you if I want you to stop. Trust me.”
He stared at me for a moment, and in those seconds I saw every flicker of worry, every strategy, every last-ditch plan run through his mind and get torched by the pure, incandescent need that was currently holding him hostage.
Then he surrendered to it, to me, with a short, helpless sound, and kissed me again.
Deeper this time, but no longer frantic.
I let him take the lead for a while, marveling at the way he seemed almost shocked by his own desire, the way his hands gripped my waist tighter than before, as if anchoring himself to a reality that was quickly coming apart at the seams. But curiosity—and maybe a little cruelty, and horniness—compelled me to see what would happen if I just . . . nudged things along.
I took his hand, which was clinging to my hip like a lifeline, and guided it upward, sliding it over the curve of my rib cage and settling it directly onto my breast, over the fabric of my shirt and bra.
He froze, eyes wide, mouth parted in a stunned little O.
For a long, silent moment he simply stared at where our hands met, as if he’d never quite believed this was something I would allow him to do outside of his daydreams.
But then, with a cautiousness so at odds with the ferocity of his earlier kisses, he began to move.
His palm flexed against me, fingers curling, thumb gently tracing slow, painstaking circles that set every one of my nerve endings on high alert.
The sensation was at once infuriatingly gentle and almost unbearably intense.
I couldn’t help it. I shivered, and my own hands clamped down hard on his shoulders for balance.
He watched that reaction, catalogued it, and then started to experiment.
Testing out a firmer squeeze, a change in pressure, the migration of his thumb along the edge of my bra.
I realized, with a stab of something strangely tender, that he was learning me, in the same way you’d learn the layout of a new city or the steps of a complicated dance.
He was methodical, deliberate, but never cold.
It was the chess genius at work, except instead of pawns and bishops he was strategizing flesh and bone.
It shouldn’t have been so hot. But it was. Fuck. It was.
He tilted his head, eyes still on my chest, and then looked up at me as if seeking permission before adding his other hand to the equation.
I gave an encouraging nod, just to see what he’d do next.
The answer was a lot. He slipped both hands under my shirt and ran them up my back, fiddling with the clasp of my bra.
I was about to offer to undo it myself when I felt it unhook.
And then, after a moment’s hesitation, he glided his hand back around front, under my shirt and bra, skin meeting skin for the first time.
He sucked in a sharp breath, almost a gasp, and swore in what I assumed was Italian—another one of those dark, beautiful series of liquid words that made me want to bite his mouth just to taste the sound of it.
Perhaps he was cursing at how good it felt, how badly he wanted it, despite all his previous restraint.
I was suddenly, weirdly proud of myself, for being so tempting that this tightly controlled mountain of restraint had crumbled.
I wanted to push him farther, just to see how far he’d go, but I held back. Go slow.
He kissed me again, softer now but less careful, like he’d decided to stop analyzing and just experience.
His hips rolled, the movement plainly involuntarily, pressing his hardness against me.
There was nothing tentative about it, nothing shy.
The move was pure instinct, and the sound he made—low and ragged, vibrating up from deep in his chest—was the hottest thing I’d ever heard. Period.
My own body responded on autopilot, pressing down, grinding into him, and I could feel the wetness gathering between my thighs, slick and hot and insistent. The tension in the room spiked, and I could tell from the way his hands shook that he was fighting a losing battle with himself.
I bent my head, mouth tracing a line from his jaw down the column of his neck, pausing at the hollow of his clavicle just to see if he’d shiver the way I had.
He did, and then some, his hands tightening at my sides, dragging my shirt up high enough that the cool air hit my bare skin and made everything sharper, more urgent.
He muttered something in Italian, and I laughed, feeling drunk on the entire situation. I licked the pulse at his throat, tasting salt and adrenaline, and he groaned again.
His hands roamed, greedy now, cupping my breasts, kneading and stroking until I was practically vibrating. And when he slid his hands under my bra again and roughly pinched my nipples, I gasped so hard, my cheeks flooded with heat.
He paused, panic flickering briefly across his face, but I shook my head and kissed him hard, reassuring. “Don’t stop,” I whispered, and the relief in his eyes was almost comical.
The next few minutes (hours? years? time was a flow state) were a blur of hands and mouths, skin and heat, the two of us tumbling and rearranging ourselves until I straddled him, shirtless and flushed.
He was still in his slacks and sweater, but barely—his belt was off, button undone, zipper halfway down.
I hooked my fingers in the waistband, tugged, and he lifted his hips automatically to help me slide them down, never letting me go.
He wore black boxer briefs, and the sight of him, tented and straining against the fabric, made me lick my lips.
One day, I promised myself, one day you will be my popsicle and I will lick you like there’s a heatwave.
“Is this okay?” I asked, pausing, giving him one last out. Because with so few layers between us, an orgasm was coming for one of us. Actually, probably for both.
He nodded, breathless, eyes gone pitch-black with want.
I leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, while my hands slid lower, exploring the cut of his hips, the sinew of his thighs. He trembled under my touch, every muscle in his body taut as a violin string.
I pressed my palm against him, over the cotton, and he arched up into my hand, gasping. I stroked him through the briefs, gentle at first, then harder, and he clung to me, one hand wrapped in my hair, the other digging into the flesh of my back, his mouth on my breast, wet and sucking.
He whispered my name, not once but over and over, each time softer, more desperate. “Samantha, are you—are you sure? Samantha . . .” It was like he was terrified this moment would vanish if he let go, and the sound of it did something to me that I couldn’t quite articulate.
I slid my hand under the waistband, a new skin meeting skin, and wrapped my fingers around him. He was hot and hard and already leaking, and the way he shuddered when I stroked him was the purest thing I’d ever felt.
He tried to reciprocate—tried to unzip my jeans, to touch me, to explore—but I batted his hands away with a grin. “Let me take care of you,” I whispered.
I worked him with slow, deliberate strokes, watching his face the whole time.
Every hitch of his lungs, every flutter of his eyelids and eyebrows, every muttered curse or prayer in a language I didn’t speak—it all added up to more real intimacy than I’d never experienced before.
There was no performance here, no script. Just raw, unfiltered feeling.
Within what seemed like seconds, he was panting uncontrollably, hips bucking up to meet my hand, jaw clenched as if he could somehow will himself to last longer. But he was too new, too overwhelmed, and I knew the end was close.
“Samantha,” he gasped, his voice breaking. “I think we should—have to—”
But before he could finish the sentence, his entire body went rigid. He grabbed my waist, holding on with an almost bruising intensity, and buried his face in my breasts as he came, hot and sudden, spilling across my hand and his stomach and my jeans.
The sound he made—half groan, half growl—ripped right through me, and the sight of him undone like that, so completely lost in sensation, made my own climax snap tight and sharp.
I ground down on his hard thigh, seeking friction, and finished with a reckless, greedy desperation that was nothing like anything I’d done or felt before.
It was wild. It was messy. And it was—he was—completely perfect.