Chapter Seven Adela #3
Beneath me, I can feel him hard and ready for more.
But he does not grind against me or hurry his exploration of my mouth, rushing toward what feels like the inevitable conclusion of these kisses.
Instead, he takes his time. It seems he knows exactly what he likes and demands it with his lips and tongue and teeth.
And what he likes sets me aflame.
Taking my butt in his hands and pulling me impossibly closer, he nips at my bottom lip, and I feel the small bite between my legs. I gasp and writhe on his lap, and he chuckles again, the deep laughter reverberating through his chest into me, which makes me wiggle more.
He kisses down my neck and across my chest, his hands trailing up my back.
“Do you like what I do to you?” he asks. I mumble my affirmation, and he stops kissing me and pulls back to look directly in my eyes. “Tell me.”
“I like it,” I say, a little surprised at the shy tone accompanying my words. I am not typically demure or embarrassed by this sort of wanting.
And yet.
Something about this confident, appealing novitiate has me feeling unsure of myself, of my ability to curb myself and my most reckless desires.
“What do you like?” he asks.
“I like your lips on me,” I reply, surprised at how breathy I sound.
As I speak, I move on his lap, relishing the way his body moves beneath me.
Finding a touch of confidence at his reactions to me, I smirk and lower my voice, teasing as I lift my hips up slowly so our bodies don’t quite touch.
“I like your firm grip, your firm… other things.”
I lower my hips, grinding down against him with intention.
He groans deep in his throat and resumes his kisses down my neck. I tilt my head back to allow him more access, and he licks along the neckline of my dress. Low and demanding, he says, “Take what you want from me.”
A chill shoots up my spine at the command.
I do.
I want his mouth on me, on my body. I tell him so. He obliges with a delightfully wicked smile as he deposits me on the bench in his place and then kneels in front of me, moving my skirts out of his way.
He kisses up my left leg, and then my right, until I am squirming with want, practically thrusting myself into his face.
He connects, and I lose all ability to move.
His mouth is hot and insistent, teasing and obliging. When he pulls back, I let out a whimper. Horrifyingly needy, but he makes a sound of amused approval. “That’s it. Move for me.”
I arch into him, now matching the movements of his tongue, meeting his rhythm. Or perhaps he matches mine. Whoever is leading is brilliant and sets a quick, delicious pace that does not hurry me toward climax, but luxuriates in the pleasure of the moment.
As he works me with his mouth, his hands move across my body, pushing apart my knees to lean in closer, brushing over my nipples, gripping my waist and holding me tight.
Until finally, it is too much.
“I want you,” I murmur, too quietly for him to hear. I clear my throat, find my voice, and say again, “I want you.”
He sits up, his mouth wet with me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling slightly in the corners. Those little lines somehow turn me even more molten. How can a man be this beautiful?
On shaking legs, I stand and switch places with him so he is once again sitting on the bench, and I crawl onto his lap. He rests his hands, large and frustratingly patient, on my thighs and waits.
“Take what you want from me, beauty,” he says again.
I do.
I reach between us, fumbling at his robes and pants. He is ready. I am ready. But just as I am about to sink myself onto him, he pulls back a bit. “Do we need a sleeve? I have one in my room. I can go fetch it.”
“Spinner’s tits, no,” I exclaim. “I take herbs. No unwanted pregnancies here.”
“Thank the goddess for brilliant, well-prepared women.” He inhales sharply as I sink down on him in one slow, steady movement.
We move together, forehead to forehead. My hands grip his shoulders; his hands hold my thighs so tightly that I suspect I’ll wear bruises beneath my matcher’s robes tomorrow.
The thought spurs me on. As do his words. For as we move, he talks.
“I love the way you take me.” He thrusts up into me and moves his hand to the base of my neck, weaving his fingers into the gaps of my braids.
He pulls my face toward him, kissing me as I continue to ride him.
I adjust my angle slightly, so he hits me just right.
I moan. Nothing has ever felt this good.
“That’s it,” he says into my mouth, his eyes watching my own. “Just there.”
I close my eyes briefly against the intensity of him, and he loosens his grip slightly on my neck as he stills beneath me.
“Need a break?”
My eyes flash open, and I grip his shoulders still tighter. I have lost most power of speech, but I manage to half croak, “No break.”
He grins, his hand tightening. “Excellent. Then look at me.”
I do. He hisses as I begin to move again, a sound somewhere between pleasure and pain. I still, but he does not have any tolerance for slowing. “Don’t stop,” he demands, moving with me. “Take me.”
I match him, burying my face in his neck, unable to withstand his gaze even as it urges me on.
Sex with Kian is like dancing with him. At first, it’s as if I’m barely keeping up.
But then it continues until I find I’m not trying at all.
I’m just moving, feeling his words and his body as my mind lets go of its worries, its obligations, even its wanting.
I am not a poor keeper or a reticent matcher. I am just a woman, existing.
It’s exhilarating.
My body moves closer and closer to climax, tightening around him, my legs shaking, my breath coming harder. He urges me on, rubbing me in just the right spot, at just the right speed, whispering how good I feel, how well I’m doing, how spectacular I look, until I am just at the edge.
“Now come for me, Goddess,” he demands.
I do, breaking apart atop him. Half a moment later, he joins me.