Chapter 15 Sex Determination #2
Andreas’s entire body was a study in contrasts.
His arms were wound around me, one under my neck and the other slung lazily across my chest, hand splayed against the fabric of my hoodie, which I’d slept in and which now, thanks to entropy, was rucked up almost to my rib cage.
His body radiated heat, and his leg hooked over mine, pinning me in place.
The rest of him pressed to my backside, and—yep—there was something unmistakably hard nudging into the soft curve of my ass.
It was the textbook definition of being trapped in a good way.
I didn’t even try to move. If I so much as twitched, I risked shattering the illusion that this was a perfectly ordinary thing to wake up to.
But the only thing I felt, aside from the urge to never ever move again, was the smallest, tiniest spike of pure, uncut bliss.
And possibly something else, but I refused to identify it without a second opinion.
Andreas was still asleep. His breath was warm on my neck, the slow, deep kind that suggested total relaxation.
But then he shifted and his hand slid up, finding its way under my hoodie.
He cupped my breast, skin to skin. My nipple, traitor that it was, gradually went stiff as an ice pick in his palm.
I was half tempted to reposition him, or at least see if I could nudge his hand back to a more neutral territory, but instead I lay still, eyes shut, and tried to see how long I could go without doing anything to disturb the moment.
Not long, as it turned out.
Andreas moved behind me, stretching just enough to arch his back and press his erection more firmly against me.
I sucked in a breath. Quiet, but not imperceptible.
He must have felt it because the hand on my breast flexed, then relaxed, then resumed its gentle, absentminded hold.
I could not, for the life of me, remember ever being this turned on before.
Even the memory of what we’d done last night paled in comparison to the feeling of being pinned beneath him, helpless and wanted by his subconscious.
That’s when his breathing changed, the rhythm of it, and I knew the precise moment he awoke. Furthermore, I knew the precise moment he knew I was awake. His body went rigid, and the air around us went from languid to charged.
“Are you awake?” His voice was a whisper, still thick with sleep and just a little rough.
I meant to say, “Yes,” or maybe, “Barely.” Instead, what came out was an incoherent, “Mmm-hmm,” that sounded an awful lot like a moan.
There was a beat of silence. I could feel the indecision, the hesitation, in every muscle of his body.
I decided to shortcut the deliberation by shifting my hips back, just enough that the hard line of him slipped between my thighs, pressed up against the warm spot where I was already embarrassingly wet.
I expected him to freeze again, to say something polite, to maybe roll away in a fit of virginal moral fortitude.
What happened instead was that his fingers tightened on my breast, and then he pulled both hands away from me at once, as if burned, and rolled onto his back with a groan of what sounded like genuine torment.
“Sorry,” he said, voice muffled as he scrubbed both hands over his face. “I did not mean to—”
I rolled onto my back, stretched languidly, and reached for his hand. “You can touch me,” I said, trying to sound casual and maybe missing by a few octaves. “I like it. You don’t have to—”
He caught my wrist before I could finish and, in one smooth move, rolled on top of me, pinning my hands to the mattress above my head. His face hovered inches from mine, eyes searching, alarmingly hungry, but still so full of restraint I could’ve screamed.
“You like it,” he repeated, voice soft and curious. “How much do you like it when I touch you?”
Feeling heat rush to my cheeks, I admitted on a squeak, “A lot.”
His smile was immediate and he bent his head, brushing his lips over my throat, my jaw, my earlobe. The smallest, most calculated touches. It was like being edge-of-orgasm tickled with a feather dipped in liquid nitrogen.
“I do not want to hurt you,” he whispered against my ear, his breath sending a shiver straight down my spine.
“You won’t,” I promised, and I arched up to kiss him, hard, messy, desperate. I wanted him to lose control again. I wanted both of us to lose it, at least for a little while.
For, you know, science.
He groaned into my mouth, and I felt his hips grind down, his cock pressing into me through the layer of my sweatpants and underwear.
I moaned again, louder this time, and wriggled my hips, teasing him, urging him on.
In a move that was both infuriating and deeply sexy, he shifted his weight to the side and brought his hand to my waistband, watching my face as he slowly, torturously, slid it down and inside.
“Okay?” he said, his eyes locking on mine.
I nodded several times.
He took his time, fingers gliding over my clit, then lower, then back, barely touching, making me feel crazy. For a minute or an hour I just lay there, panting, not even pretending to have chill.
Andreas watched my reactions, studying every shiver, every shift of my hips, and seemed to adjust his approach accordingly, switching from delicate to rough, slow to fast, until I writhed on the bed.
He slipped a finger inside me, then two, pumping slowly, curling at just the right angle, and I nearly blacked out from the sensation.
He moved faster, mouth coming down to my neck, nipping and licking, and the combination of pleasure and tenderness was too much.
“I’m gonna—” I started, and then the orgasm hit.
My back arched off the bed, and I clung to his arm, not trusting my body to stay anchored to earth.
It was a full-body, brain-melting climax and the man had barely touched me.
As I came back to myself, I realized I’d grabbed his hair at some point and currently held his face tightly against my neck.
“Oh my God,” I managed, voice shaky as I released him. “I am so sorry—can you breathe?”
As he lifted his head, Andreas grinned at me, wide and delighted, his hair wild from my clutching. “I can breathe,” he said, and he looked so genuinely proud of himself I started laughing, shaky and a little hysterical.
“You are so sexy, I l—” I stopped myself just in time, but I felt my face go nuclear. I hadn’t finished the sentence. Even so, I wondered if he’d caught the implication. For me, it hovered in the air like a hazardous chemical cloud.
Andreas’s smile softened, and he leaned down to kiss me, slow and sweet, then trailed his lips down my neck, lifting my hoodie as he went, and encouraging me to sit up just enough for him to take it off. I complied and was immediately rewarded with his mouth on my breast.
Not only that, his fingers returned to my underwear, gentle now, stroking, teasing. “Do you think you can go again?” he whispered, voice low and reverent. “I want to taste you.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I said in my now-signature moan of acquiescence. If he’d asked for a kidney, I would have handed it over, no anesthesia required.
He coaxed my sweatpants and underwear off, leaving me naked to his gaze, and propped himself up on one elbow to look at me. The way he did it—no smirk, no arrogance, just awe—made me shiver.
Andreas kissed his way down my stomach, hands tracing over my ribs, my hips, and then he spread my thighs, holding them open and wide.
The anticipation was unbearable, an ache, a static, a humming in every nerve.
Andreas met my gaze from between my spread thighs, and for a split second, the world froze.
Soft orange-pink light streamed in through the curtains, the sharp scent of his soap and sweat, his eyes on mine full of emotion I didn’t dare name.
Then he broke eye contact, his lashes lowering as he ran a single finger up the inside of my thigh, slow and gentle.
My breath caught. He pressed a kiss to the side of my knee, then another, traveling closer, each one hotter, rougher, more deliberate.
The first pass of his tongue was tentative, exploratory, as if he were mapping the landscape of my desire in case he needed to draw it later from memory.
I twitched, unable to stifle the gasp, and in response his hands tightened on my inner thighs, anchoring me, making it clear—without a syllable—that there was nowhere else I was allowed to be.
The second pass was nothing like the first. He licked me with greedy, unapologetic hunger, his tongue slick and soft and then, suddenly, hard and pointed, tracing circles around my clit with precision.
The sensation was overwhelming, a scramble of pleasure flooded my thoughts and left me clawing at the sheets, at his hair, at my own skin.
I became aware, in the most abstract sense, that I was making noises—unladylike, undignified, almost animal—and that Andreas was moaning in concert, the vibration of his voice making me lose my mind.
My body rebelled against the rules of muscle control; my thighs clamped tight around his head; my heels dug into the mattress; and my hands, acting independently of my brain, twisted into his hair and pulled, hard.
He sucked my clit between his lips, and the sound I made was so loud I was momentarily embarrassed, but then his hand pressed flat against my stomach and he groaned, “God, you’re perfect,” and I didn’t care about anything except coming apart in his mouth.
He repeated the word—“Perfect, perfect”—between licks, like he was programming it into my DNA.
The orgasm hit me sideways, unexpected and sharp, a heat-lightning strike that started at the base of my spine and radiated outward until I was nothing but aftershocks and stardust. The world went out of focus.
I felt myself dissolving, my body a field of fireworks and trembling muscle, and I didn’t even realize I’d sobbed out his name until his grip on my hips loosened and he nuzzled his face against my thigh, humming proudly.
I was still floating, unmoored, when he started again, this time with more patience and less urgency, as if he was savoring the slow, inexorable buildup for its own sake.
He drew out the sensation—long, teasing strokes, punctuated by gentle bites that made me shudder.
My third orgasm of the morning was nothing like the other two.
It was slower, but more intense, like a wave lifting me higher and higher until I lost all definition, until my vision fuzzed at the edges and the only thing I could see was the flash of his eyes every time he looked up to see what he was doing to me.
I lost track of my limbs, lost my grip on everything but the sheets.
My entire being reduced itself to one point of contact, one axis of pleasure, one spiral of sensation that kept climbing, kept fracturing, until I was babbling his name and clutching at his shoulders just to be sure I hadn’t floated away altogether.
He slowed, finally, and rested his cheek against the inside of my knee, hands rubbing gentle circles up and down my thighs, as if he was coaxing me back into my body, reassuring me it was safe to return. I felt emptied out, like a glass flask rinsed clean and left to dry.
Damn. What a frickin’ overachiever.
When I finally came down, Andreas slid up the bed and gathered me against his chest, kissing my hair and murmuring soft nonsense in my ear in a language I didn’t understand. I’d never been held like this before, post-orgasm. It was weird, but in the best way.
I pressed my face to his collarbone and tried to slow my heart rate, aware that I was one careless word away from confessing something dangerous and irreversible.
I did not, under any circumstances, want to be in love with him.
But God, did it feel like that’s exactly what was happening.