Chapter 30
[Taxi]
Watching Stone Sylver fall apart has to be ranked up there with the seven wonders of the world. A man so sturdy, so controlled, crumbling like he just did, and because of me . . . that is something powerful.
And now he’s kissing me, tasting himself on my tongue, drinking me in again. Everything about this kiss is yearning.
As he said, it’s been so long, and those words hold weight. If it’s been a long time since he’s been touched, it means it’s been a long time since he’s touched someone.
And he’s touching me. His fingers in my hair. His mouth eager and hungry against mine. His chest brushing my naked breasts.
Stone shifts, flipping me to my back and breaking our kiss. He slips one leg between mine, scooting his body lower and lower as he peppers my breasts with kisses. One against the inside of the right one. One over the left where he drew a star.
What was his unspoken plea?
I know what mine was. Take care of my heart. The words were too much to speak aloud. Too soon for such sentiment.
For now, I melt under the onslaught of his lips on my skin, drawing something that makes no sense as he moves from one side of my body to the other, in a haphazard pattern, kissing me here and there and everywhere. Over a nipple. Against my belly button. On my hip.
He shoves at the fabric of my overalls, pulling them down my legs and off my feet, tossing them to the side. He cuffs my ankles with his large hands and skims up my shins, climbing back between my legs. Willingly, I spread my thighs, allowing space for his large body between them.
“Like I said earlier, Taxi. You take my breath away.”
A woman could lose her head to compliments like that. And her heart.
He continues his slow travel up my body.
Hands running over my knees and up my thighs, teasing where I want him most but only brushing his thumbs over the patch of coarse hair above it.
His palms flatten on my belly, fingers spreading wide as he covers my hips and outlines the side of my midsection.
“You’re a work of art,” he says, his words worshipful. Something inside me cracks at the praise in his voice. The awe as he’s looking at me.
He brushes over my breasts again, squeezing them in tandem before coasting down my stomach once more. Then he dips his hand between my legs, watching where his fingers split me open, and he easily glides one inside me.
I tip back my head and arch into his touch, feeling full but knowing I’ll be fuller when he adds a second one.
“Been waiting for me, Taxi?”
My eyes ping open, gaze latching on his face to realize he’s still staring at how his fingers slide in and out of me, pushing and pulling at my excitement, slicking those thick digits of his.
“You’re so wet,” he hums, again with surprise, with pleasant confusion. Like he can’t believe how wet he makes me.
Last night was a rush. An unexpected high as I needed him. Needed to know if his touch would be as grand as I’d been imagining. Lying next to him every night, letting him weave around me like a vine, I needed to know how it would feel if something more happened.
Tonight is certainly more.
I hadn’t anticipated the wonder in his tone or the praise of his touch. The sheer admiration through his hands running over my body and now slipping inside it.
He shifts lower, wedging his shoulders between my thighs and running one hand under the backside of my leg, hitching it over his arm. His hand cups the side of my backside, while his fingers continue to strum in and out of me.
His gaze lifts to my face, and I watch him as he lowers his head, eyes still on me. His tongue sneaks between his lips, and a hesitant lick tickles where I want him. My breath hitches, and he smiles before flattening his tongue, dipping his gaze, and stroking up that sensitive nub.
“Stone,” I whimper.
His tongue circles the tight folds and laps harder, faster. His fingers inside me still as his tongue takes over, brushing against me, painting me in a world of color.
Pulsing red. Downy pink. Periwinkle.
He sucks at my clit and my legs twitch. He squeezes my backside with his other hand and hums against me. The vibration ripples up my body and settles in my lower belly, where an entire flight of something flaps inside me.
“Stone,” I whisper, running my hands through his hair, spreading my legs wider as if he can get deeper. As if I can draw him into me, in ways he isn’t already inside. His fingers. Then his tongue. His mouth on me so intimately.
My hips act of their own accord, rocking subtly, matching a rhythm only my heart hears.
And that mustache . . . it tickles when he dips his tongue lower and then pulls it back to the point that triggers all my pleasure.
Where Stone treats me with delicacy, and yet with the full weight of his desire.
His mouth becomes more insistent, and my hips roll a little faster, riding along peaks and valleys of a slow rising tide.
When Stone firmly cups my backside, practically lifting my lower half off the bed, his tongue is hunger and thirst. A man desperate to be full and quenched.
“Yes,” I call out, affirming that I’m here to meet all his needs. “Yes. There.” I say louder, almost as desperate as Stone.
No one as powerful as Stone, as masterful and attentive, has been this intimate with me in a long, long time.
Something in me cracks again. Like tectonic plates within the earth being ruptured, disrupted, and shifting. Something warm and molten fills the spaces, and my body trembles, anticipation building, heat rising.
“Stone?” I question the power of what’s coming, of what’s happening inside me.
I clutch harder at his hair, my fingers dig within the strands, holding onto him, like I need him to align my gravity. My hips rock faster, thighs spread as wide as I can.
Stone flicks harder, and I detonate. I feel like I’ve left this bed and hover above it, floating in suspension, the pleasure mesmerizing.
If I thought my body could glitter and shimmer, I swear it does.
My skin tingles. My toes curl. I cling to Stone’s head and ride out the sensation that he continues to tease from me until I can’t take anymore.
I fall back against the bed, legs limp, fingers loosening in his hair.
“Stone,” I whisper, a warning, an appreciation. Enough.
He presses a final kiss against where I’m tender and spent, and then slowly lifts, climbing up my body.
One of his legs slips between mine. Half his body covers me. He falls into the cradle of my arm and my chest, resting his head against my shoulder. I run my fingernails up his back, and he presses a kiss right above my right breast.
“Thank you, Taxi.”
The words surprise me, and I pull back my head, dip my fingers in his hair again, and gently tug his head back so he can look at me.
“For what?”
“For being here.”
He settles back into the nest of my arm around him and his cheek against my chest, but I lie there stunned, eyes prickling.
Because no one has ever said such a thing to me.