Chapter Seven Margot
Chapter Seven
Margot
When it comes to making a splashy entrance, I am usually quite confident in myself.
I’ve never made a mostly nude entrance before, however, so there was a tiny moment of self-doubt before emerging from the bathroom in nothing but a sash and panties. But the jingly nerves wash away like suds down a drain when I absorb Dean’s palpable reaction.
His jaw goes loose before hardening, his dark eyes tracking down to my single visible breast. Long fingers stretch at his sides, that strong throat working in a swallow.
I watch the zipper of his jeans grow fuller, his chest starting a slow, dramatic heave, his usual steady breath turning shallow when his gaze reaches my panties.
The white cotton mound between my legs that, if I’m being honest, has felt swollen and achy since I got into his truck.
Or maybe since he kissed me this afternoon.
I want to put that problem in Dean’s hands.
I’ve only ever wanted him to touch my bare skin.
No one else. There have been times where I’ve wanted to explore who I am sexually, to feel and experience what it’s like to give and take pleasure from another person.
But I could never bring myself to give up on the dream that Dean would be my first. A dream I’ve harbored since I was a teenager.
Maybe it’s silly to put so much importance on my virginity, but it’s not really about that.
Waiting for him was pure stubbornness. Or maybe the belief that I would feel exactly like this when the moment arrived.
Confident.
Eager.
Emotional.
Hot.
No one else could make me safe enough to feel all those things at once.
“Margot,” he starts, and I’ve never heard his voice like this.
So deep and throaty. “I’ve never seen anything more incredible in my life.
” Slowly, he begins to walk in my direction, and the closer he gets, the more I clock his signs of hunger.
The pull around his mouth, the sweat on his hairline, the jutting angle behind his fly.
“Tell me now what you want tonight. Give me a boundary and spell it out clearly, because I can’t think of a single one right now.
I just want to tear those little white panties off. ”
Fizz rushes wildly in my veins, and there’s a glorious quickening of muscles and tendons below my waist. I’m wanted.
I’m needed in the same way I need him. The best part of this moment is the lack of mystery.
There was always that veil between us, me wondering how he felt.
If he was attracted to me too. If he missed me, pined for me in the offseason, the way I did with him.
One look at his acutely pained but worshipful expression, and I’ll never wonder again.
I drop my arm from the wall, teasing a finger along the elastic band of my underwear. “I only left them on so I could watch you take them off.”
His responding groan is cut off by my lips, because he lunges in my direction, lifting me off the floor in one sweeping move, our mouths colliding in a fevered twist. Sipping, suctioning, and pulling. A hurried need to give in and taste. Taste. Taste.
We’re moving.
I have no idea where he’s taking me, but I don’t care. We’re in a secluded cabin in the woods, and there’s so much freedom in this privately shared world. I’m concerned with nothing but the rake of his tongue against mine, the press of a wall against my back.
His hands molding to my butt, that grip keeping me lifted. Lifted so he can press his hips into me there. Right there against the soft swell between my thighs.
“I want to eat you out so fucking bad,” he says through his teeth, gathering the rear material of my panties in his fist and twisting, drawing the cotton up between the cheeks of my backside and pulling until I sob sharply, overwhelmed by the clawing heat in my belly. “Can I kiss you down there, Margot?”
“Yes.” Sensing his need for total clarity, I find his heavy-lidded eyes. “I want to do everything with you tonight. I don’t want to stop.”
He drops his forehead to mine, hissing a curse against my mouth. “Are you sure?”
“A thousand percent,” I whisper. “It’s you.”
I swear I can hear his heart slam a little extra hard when I say that.
“It’s you and me,” he amends, pulling me off the wall and carrying me into a room off the kitchen.
A screened-in porch that looks out into the woods.
A lantern hangs from the ceiling, but he doesn’t bother lighting it.
Instead, he carries me to the padded bench that runs along the entire perimeter of the porch.
“I’m not going to make it upstairs,” Dean mutters, setting me on my feet and feeling his way around to the front of me, molding my sex in his big hand through the dampening white cotton.
“I’ve spent years getting hard for you. Even when I hadn’t seen you in a year, it was always you I needed to think about.
” He delves his fingers inside my panties, slowly, his calloused work hand giving the most unique and mind-blowing friction to my softest flesh.
“God, I can’t believe I’m touching your pussy. ”
“Me either,” I whisper.
“You like it?”
“Uh-huh.”
His mouth covers mine hungrily, his tongue moving in tandem with his middle finger that parts me gently, rubbing and spreading the abundant moisture.
When he grazes my clitoris with his knuckle, my knees lock tight, then give out entirely, forcing Dean to catch me, preventing me from falling.
Holding me with his left arm banded around the small of my back, he kisses me deeply, so deeply, while his right hand lowers my panties, pushing them down past my hips until they’re able to slip to my knees.
“Sit on the edge of the bench,” he says, guiding me down, and I go, watching him move with me so fluidly, his knees planting on the floor in front of me as he tugs my panties the rest of the way off, never stopping, planting kisses on my knees, right, left, right, until I’m ready to open my thighs, and when I do, he rises once to press a reassuring kiss to my mouth.
Twice. A breath. And then his lips chart a path down my throat to my exposed breast, tonguing my nipple into a tingling point, continuing down my bare tummy to my lap, his capable hands guiding my knees up and over his shoulders.
“I’m going to make you come like this, Margot,” he says gruffly, rubbing his mouth against my flesh, his breath accelerating.
“When I’m done, if that’s all you want tonight, you tell me. ”
“Okay,” I manage, my pulse in a tailspin.
Look at him. On his knees in the dark.
My legs draped over his shoulders.
I’m never getting over this.
Correction: I’m never getting over what he does next.
I never really understood the term eat me out, but I comprehend it quickly, watching him do exactly that.
His mouth goes into me like a meal, taking whole portions of me between eager lips, rubbing in spots I had no idea were so sensitive, using my wetness and his own spit to turn me into a slippery mess, transforming me into a shaking, whimpering vibration of nerves when he presses my thighs open an inch more and targets my clit, slapping his tongue over it and grinding gently, gently, then with increasing pressure.
Grunting and closing his eyes as he does it.
I’ve never been able to shut my overly analytical brain down before, but he does it for me now.
I collapse back against a screened window, I think, and sob his name once, and he must hear a request for something I couldn’t voice, because his middle finger pushes inside of me now, and the fullness, oh God, the full pressure of his finger combined with the pattern his tongue takes over my clit jumbles my wits like shaken puzzle pieces, and it happens.
I tighten into an orgasm, spasms pulsing my sex, the enormity of the release rocking me in an unexpected way.
A loose kind of freedom takes over, and I don’t think . . .
I don’t think.
I don’t know what happens, but I have to obey my body’s need to get closer to him.
It’s more compulsion than anything, and he’s already reaching for me, so I go.
I free-fall off the edge of the cushioned bench, allowing him to catch me, easing me into a straddle on his lap, while my mouth moves in frantic communication with his, tasting myself in between gasps for air, gravity pressing the sensitive juncture of my thighs to the denim ridge of his erection.
“That was so good,” I say unevenly, rolling my hips. I’m babbling and I know it, but I don’t care. It’s Dean. My Dean. “Oh my God, that felt so good. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me when you taste like pure sugar,” he rasps into a kiss, his palm smacking lightly off my ass like a sweet admonishment, and lust erupts inside of me, from some dormant volcano deep inside, all reserved for him.
“Can I take your shirt off?” I ask, my fingers already scrambling for the hem.
“You’re naked except for my badges.” His head falls back on a pained wince, those hips lifting, bringing my knees a few inches off the floor. “Believe me, you can do whatever you want.”
I pull the shirt up and over his head, the intoxication of what’s happening only getting headier, more urgent, thanks to his upper torso.
The strained musculature of his shoulders, the thickness of his pecs.
His hands are propped on the floor behind his hips, making his biceps pop, and I’m suddenly more positive than ever that this is happening.
“I waited a long time for you,” I hiccup against his mouth, my palms dragging down the front of his body to the fly of his jeans, flicking open the button, his chest starting to heave roughly against me, as if he senses the direction I’m taking, his glazed eyes opening to study me while I kiss him.
“Is it okay with you if I don’t wait anymore? ”
“You want me inside you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”