4 #3
“Fucking hell,” he breathes as his large hands delicately cup my breasts.
My stomach drops. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re so sexy, Max.” He sits up, still stroking my nipples with his thumbs.
I giggle, giving him a little shove. “Shut up.”
His hands slip down to my waist, his long fingers stretching across my ribs before sliding them around to my back. His firm arms draw me against his chest and his fingers slip into my hair. He lures my mouth down to his, and I’m hit by the reality of what’s coming.
Last year, a bottle told us to kiss, but that was a game. Tonight is entirely different from an awkward peck shared between friends. There’s a deeper meaning behind this one.
At first, he kisses me cautiously, hesitant as if restrained by fear. As we get used to each other’s embrace, our kisses become more intense and passionate, as if we’ve unlocked a door we shouldn’t have. But before long, we slow down, all too aware of the next step.
I slip his hand into my pajamas, between my thighs. Mitch freezes, pulling his hand back.
I glare at him. “Don’t stop. I want this.”
He locks his dark gaze on mine, letting several seconds tick by as if he’s caught between two choices, uncertain which one is right.
Then, with a quick nod, he grips my hips, lifting me off his lap and flipping me over onto the bouncy air mattress as if I weigh nothing.
A tiny yelp falls from my mouth as he moves, pinning me down, blanketing me in his comforting weight.
He slips his hand into my pants and strokes his fingers against my center, heightening my arousal. My wetness coats his hand and I chase away the embarrassment that comes with that awareness.
He lowers his mouth to my neck, showering my skin with soft kisses, then he gently pushes a finger into me, pulling back to watch me moan.
He bites his lower lip and does it again.
The foreign sensation of his finger inside me is so strange, but not at all unwelcome, and the quicker he moves, the more comfortable I become.
When he runs his thumb against my clit, I’m unable to stop myself from moaning his name, and when he smiles, I bring my mouth up to his. A burning sensation surges between my legs, but he swallows my cries as the muscles in my lower body tighten in ways I’ve never felt before.
I tear my eyes open, meeting his. “Mitch? I’m…”
Calm and understanding, he smiles down at me, lowering his lips to my chin, then whispers, “Let it go, Max.”
He traces my neck with his lips, down to my chest, and when he sucks one of my nipples into his warm, wet mouth, sparks dance across my closed eyelids. I clutch at his back, at his hair, my hips bucking beneath him.
Another surge strikes, this time stronger and more powerful, forcing me to bite down hard on my lower lip, aware that our friends are nearby. I wish we’d done this somewhere else, when we were alone and I could be as vocal as I want, not during one of our camping trips.
As the waves of pleasure fade, I can’t seem to catch my breath. Mitch hovers nearby and I’m only half aware that he’s taken his pants off and is searching through his backpack.
The clarity of what is about to happen comes down on me like a bucket of ice water. The thrilling orgasm vanishes, replaced with the distinct, mind-numbing fear that I’m not quite ready to walk through the door I’ve just opened.
Drenched in sweat, I wake in bed, tangled in my sheets, my thighs slick with arousal. The duvet and cushions are strewn across the mattress and floor.
I lie still, glaring at the ceiling, wondering where the hell that dream came from.
Only that’s not how things happened back then. My subconscious seems to be embellishing the memory, turning it into something deep and meaningful, when in reality, it was anything but.
That night with Mitchell. Camping. I made a move, and he turned me down.
I made the mistake of trusting him, thinking he felt one iota of what I did. After that night, my feelings for him changed drastically.
Well, not right away, but soon afterward.
“Ugh,” I groan into my pillow, then throw it across my bedroom, hitting my fern. My artificial fern.
Something I don’t recognize prickles my skin. It could be anger, could be sadness. Could be how insanely horny I am because Tucker left me high and wet.
No matter what it is, combining all of it with the dream I had only makes me desperate to come. I reach into my bedside drawer and pull out my dildo, shoving it between my thighs, running it against my swollen bud.
Christ, why am I so fucking wet?
Screw taking my time. I rub the latex toy against my body, pushing it into my pussy all too much in a hurry, needing this orgasm out of me so I can get back to sleep.
But lingering, and definitely unwanted thoughts, keep barging in and snatching me from the moment.
Why did my brain bring me back to one of the toughest nights of my life?
And why does my skin burn and my orgasm grow every time I picture Mitch above me, looking down with that heat in his green eyes and that annoying smirk on his lips?