Chapter Six #4
He eased me back down, trailing soft kisses over my inner thighs, across my hipbones, up my belly, breasts, neck.
Teeth gently nipped my earlobe, his warm breath teasing over it as he spoke.
"Hearing you say my name when you come apart is another thing fantasy could never have done any justice to," he told me before sealing his lips to mine, finally shifting his hips, sliding up my slick cleft, a thick, heavy pressure, rubbing perfectly, not too soft, not too hard, guiding my body down then back up.
My sex clenched hard as he closed his eyes for a long moment, enjoying the sensation, trying to get control, I wasn't sure which. But either one made my belly feel liquid, made my body ache to have him lose control, give it over to his need, get lost completely in me.
Maybe hear my name as he fell apart.
"King..." My voice was a whimper, a plead, an encouragement.
I needed it.
And he needed to know how much I needed it.
Him.
How much I needed him.
And everything he could give me.
One arm took his weight, body shifting, sliding over mine slightly as he reached into the nightstand, pressing up to his knees to protect us, his gaze unwavering on mine. Hungry, yes, but something more. Something deeper. Something that made my belly flutter, made my chest tighten.
But before I could try to figure out what it was amongst the chaos of sensations in my body, thoughts in my mind, his body was covering mine once again, his lips taking mine as he settled between my thighs.
He didn't surge.
Didn't give into the need I felt against my sex.
No.
He lavished.
Lingered.
Kissed me slower, deeper. Until there was nothing else in the world but his lips on mine. Until I forgot that it was often such a means to an end, the prelude to the main attraction.
My body curled upward around him, legs folding across his lower back, arms holding on tighter than I was sure I had ever held anyone before, like I was terrified to let go, like I never planned to.
Only then did his lips pull from mine, forehead pressing to mine for a second as he took a breath, both our eyes seeming to flutter open at the same time.
It was only then that I felt his cock slide, press, slip inside.
My breath caught at the sensation as he slid inch by glorious inch until he was finally settled fully inside.
I wanted to find words.
There were so many to say.
So many feelings that needed to be spoken, made even more real than they already felt by sharing them with him.
But my thoughts tangled together before any of them could touch my tongue.
I could see a similar battle in Kingston's face.
But in the end, there were no words.
There didn't need to be.
There was just us.
Just this moment.
Just the rush of shared pleasure as his body slid out of mine, then in, unhurried, but somehow desperate at the same time.
Whimpers became moans as my body arched, as my hips matched his motions, as my fingers dug, as his slid under me curling into my shoulders, leaving marks in their fierceness, his grip clearly showing his slow but sure loss of control, his need to hold onto it for me—a thought that made my sex clench harder as he surged a little faster, a little harder, a little deeper.
"King..." I gasped, feeling pushed to the edge again.
"Come for me, sweetheart," he demanded, voice rough, coming from between clenched teeth.
One more surge and the orgasm crashed, dragging me under, refusing to let me surface. So I did all I could do. I held on. I cried out, gasped, let him anchor me as the waves threatened to tear me away.
"Fuck, Savvy..." he hissed, pressing deep, body jerking hard as he came at the end of my orgasm.
His weight came down on me, pressed me deeper into the mattress, his head nestled into the crook of my neck, breathing heavy. Against my breast, his heart was hammering hard, as frantic as my own.
Maybe breathing was harder, but I never wanted him to move.
My arms stayed wrapped around him as we both slowly won the battle for composure, heartbeats slowing, breathing evening out, muscles—previously mushy and useless—finding strength once again, making him fight against my hold a bit, press up to look down at me.
"Fantasies were great. Reality was a million times better," he told me.
I couldn't seem to find the words to agree. so I did it with my body, pulling him down, pressing my lips to his, kissing him until it was hard to breathe again.
"Let me up. Just for a minute," he specified, making my arms and legs release him with only a small bit of hesitation.
He got up, hopping off the bed, going to the door, giving me a glorious eye full of his bare ass as he made his way into the hall to go to the bathroom.
Alone, I moved upward, sliding under the sheets, curling on my side to hide a giant smile in the pillows.
Because the moment I had only let myself fantasize about in weak moments—before bed, in those in-between moments in the morning before my day forced me out of the trappings of my blankets—had just tripped out of dreams and into real life.
Nothing, no amount of wishful longings, could ever compare to that. The touch of his hands, lips, tongue, teeth, the press of his body against mine, the sounds of his breathing, his curses, his hissing, the way he said my name.
Nothing could compare to having that, experiencing that.
The only thing I could think was: perfect. It was perfect. It was everything I had ever dreamed of. More.
"Are you okay?" King's voice asked, sounding worried from his side of the bed, making me turn my head out of the pillow, not even trying to dull the shine of the smile. Seeing it, his shoulders relaxed. A slow, sexy smile spread upward, meeting the warmness in his eyes.
Lifting the sheets, he moved in with me, curling onto his side, hand reaching out to rest on the side of my neck.
"So that happened," he announced with a small smile.
"Mmhmm," I agreed, inching closer to his warmth—both literal and figurative. "I would like to schedule that again for, say, eight hours from now," I told him, checking the nonexistent watch at my wrist.
"I think I can squeeze that in," he agreed as his hand slid down my arm, moving across my back, anchoring in the middle to pull me with him as he rolled onto his back, settling me on his chest.
His one arm stayed anchored, the other sifted through my hair, a sensation that sent shivers through my insides.
"This is where we're supposed to be adults, and discuss our intentions and the possible repercussions because of our family and friends."
"It is," I agreed, tone mock-serious. "Luckily, we are just a couple of horny teenagers, wiped out from messing around while our parents are out of town."
"That is lucky," he agreed, arm giving me a squeeze as his lips pressed into the side of my head.
We stayed that way, silent, close, for a while, happy, orgasm-contented, before sleep finally claimed us.
Kingston's arms stilled and got heavy as his breathing slowed and evened out, slipping away.
I followed closely behind, comfortable, warm, and maybe only a teensy bit worried I was going to wake up and find it was all a dream.
--
I woke up to the unmistakable scent of pancakes cooking.
I didn't even give a second of thought to lounging in bed, waking up slowly.
I threw off the blankets, struggling into the pants Kingston had taken off me before and the tee I had taken off of him seeing as mine was likely still on the living room floor, and rushed into the bathroom to quickly throw myself together, but not too much.
Just enough that my hair didn't look like a bird's nest and my breath was minty fresh, not wanting to try too hard.
And also a little too eager to see Kingston again, get another hit of whatever it was he did to me that I had the feeling was going to be incredibly addictive.
But if there was ever a habit to develop, one to a man such as Kingston—kind, good, stable, generous—was the one to get hooked on.
"Sample batch," Kingston informed me when I walked out to Padfoot chowing down on a couple half burnt, half yellowish from low temperature circles in a pile in front of him.
"The first few are always toss aways," I told him, wondering if that slight uncertainty in his voice was because he thought I was going to judge his cooking skills.
Me.
A woman who had never, as in ever, had a man cook for her.
Who was somewhat amazed that men existed who did things such as cook for a woman.
Who was ecstatic at the idea of eating something I actually didn't have to cook for a change.
Who was pretty sure the sexiest thing in the entire world was Kingston in a pair of thick dark gray sweatpants, hair mussed, naked from the waist up, standing in front of the stove with a spatula in his hand.