Chapter 6 #2
She didn’t find out because, instead of pausing beside her at the bed’s edge, he continued past her, the soft thud of his deliberate footfalls proof, in her mind, of how much he was enjoying making her wait, making her yearn.
She listened, every muscle tight, aching for his touch, as he made a detour into the closet.
Jenna tracked the sound of the sliding door and the click of the hanger rod.
There was a metallic whoosh as he slid something off a hanger, deliberate, unhurried.
When he returned, she could sense his presence, the air shifting, her skin prickling under the weight of his focus.
The anticipation was exquisite—a fluttering tension that seemed to drag her heartbeat out into every cell of her body.
She saw the flick of black silk in his hand, a tie, and felt her breath catch.
He drew closer, the predatory confidence in his stride making her weak.
He didn’t say a word. Instead, he simply ran one large hand up her nape, gathering her hair and tilting her chin up, and with the other, he let the tie slip through his fingers, the fabric whispering a promise against her skin.
Jenna was powerless to move, rooted in place as he lifted the silk to her face. He made quick work of the blindfold, too quick, too skilled. He was master level. The thought sent heat spiraling low in her belly.
She closed her eyes, but the darkness didn’t matter once he’d knotted the tie snugly at the back of her head.
She couldn’t see, could only anticipate and feel.
The lack of vision was instantly disorienting, but it left her with a raw, receptive attention that vibrated in her bones.
She’d never been blindfolded before, not in her marriages, not even as a joke.
She hadn’t realized until just now how much she wanted this, craved it, needed it.
She could sense him as a warm, magnetic field at her side. She could hear his breathing, slow and measured. Smell him, too: cedar, soap, and something darker, something uniquely masculine that filled her lungs and made her want to claw him closer.
The silence built, pressing in on her as she tried to imagine what he was doing.
She let her hands graze her thighs, feeling the tremor in her own flesh.
She was desperate to know if he was watching her, what he was thinking, what he was going to do next.
The not knowing was intoxicating, every second stretching out painfully sweet.
There was a rustle of fabric, and she realized he was undressing.
She wanted, so badly, to see him, his chest, his arms, the lines of muscles she’d only caught hints of before.
She tried to picture what his body would look like: broad, defined, strong.
Imagining him nude, inches away, was building her arousal in a way she never imagined it could.
The pressure between her legs was swirling.
Next, she felt him take a step closer to her. His hand cupped her face, and, instinctively, she leaned into his palm. His thumb traced her lips so softly, so feather-light, before it was replaced with his breath.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered before his lips touched hers.
The kiss shocked her in the best way, it wasn’t anything Jenna expected.
There was no sudden smash of lips, no bruising claim.
He kissed her the way a sculptor finds the shape in marble: soft, slow, reverent.
His mouth lingered on hers, teasing the seam, with the curiosity of a man who wanted to memorize every detail.
It was cautious at first—an invitation, not a command—and all the more disarming for its restraint.
She whimpered, unable to help herself, as his thumb swept her cheek while his other hand settled with surprising tenderness behind her neck, tilting her head back to give him even better access. She felt herself melting, her body liquefying under his touch.
When he deepened the kiss, her world went white-hot behind the blindfold.
His tongue touched hers—tentative, then urgent, then so demanding her inner walls spasmed in succession.
Need spiraled in her core like wire tightening, and she gasped—it was half surrender, half plea—her lips opening to let him in, to take him in, to abandon the last shreds of her practiced distance.
Then the kiss was broken. No warning. Just broken.
He let the silence return, a calculated pause, as if he wanted her to remember what it was like to crave.
She did. The darkness behind her eyes, the taste of him on her tongue, the memory of his hand warm against her cheek, his fingers digging into the nape of her neck, she was on fire, burning, every molecule screaming for contact.
Then, with deliberate slowness, she felt his fingers at the shirt collar.
He undid the first button of his shirt. Not all of them, just the first, letting her know he could take her apart piece by piece and that he would.
She shuddered at the sound of fabric parting, at the sensation of cool air on her skin.
He undid the next button, then the next, taking his time, making her wait.
Each time she expected him to touch her, he didn’t. His knuckles grazed along her sternum, traced the outer edge of her breast, and played at the hollow of her throat before drifting away again. She arched, desperate for more.
She felt the brush of his jaw against her hair, then the warmth of his breath as he spoke against her temple, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
The praise was so unexpected, so unguarded, that it made her shiver.
No one had ever said it like that before, not with awe but with certainty, like he was naming a fact.
She’d been told she was sexy, hot, and yes, beautiful, but not with reverence.
Not in the way someone would appreciate art and still want to tear her clothes off, which is exactly what she’d always wanted.
She sensed him take a step back, and the distance made her greedy. She wanted to rip off the blindfold and drag him down to her, but the ache in her body was so exquisite she almost wanted to live inside it forever.
She could hear his breathing. It was heavier than it was before. Maybe she was affecting him as much as he was affecting her. Her hands moved up her bare thighs restlessly, just needing to feel something, and she heard him say, “Take off the shirt.”
His voice was so deep, so gravelly, it sent a ripple of desire through her.
She stood and did as he asked, pulling both sleeves and letting them slip down her arms. The shirt softly fell to the floor, pooling at her feet, and she stood totally naked, blindfolded, in front of a man whose name she didn’t know, and she never felt more powerful in her life.
A deep groan ripped from his chest as he once again commanded, “Sit down.”
Her legs were about to give out, so she was happy for the instruction. This was exactly what she’d been missing in her sex life. This was what she needed, someone telling her exactly what to do. Someone else flying and knowing exactly how to get to the destination.
When she felt his hands on her, a shiver rushed through her at the contact, but he didn’t touch her where she wanted most, not yet.
Instead, he explored her. Her neck, her shoulders, her chest. He mapped her as if she were a new country and he, a master cartographer.
When he finally cupped her breast, his hand was gentle but firm, and she heard her own gasp before she realized she’d made it.
He took his time teasing her before, finally, he traced her nipples with his finger, then his tongue.
Her puckered nubs peaked under his touch.
He toyed with them, rolling one between his thumb and forefinger, then drawing his mouth down to take her in, first with lips, then tongue, then with the sharp tease of teeth.
Jenna couldn’t help the whimper that left her.
The sensation was magnified by her helplessness, the lack of sight, and the not knowing what would come next.
His other hand was busy as well, kneading her other breast, then squeezing them together, making her arch into his touch.
He licked both, then she felt him lick between her breasts, his saliva dripping down her body.
Then, she felt something new—a thick, broad heat—pressing between her plump flesh: he was hard, and he was using her chest, sliding himself between her mounds.
Fuck, that was hot.
Despite being blindfolded, she looked down.
He rocked his hips, thrusting slowly, the crown of his cock grazing her chin, then her lips.
The first time he did it, she gasped. The second time, she was ready, tongue darting out to taste him as he passed.
The salty, hot flavor made her moan, and she waited for the next pass, eager to please him.
He rewarded her with a low, guttural growl.
“Fuck,” he said, his voice thick with arousal.
“Good girl.” The praise hit her like a jolt of electricity.
She did it again and again, licking at his tip each time it brushed her mouth.
He swelled, growing even harder, and she relished the evidence of his pleasure.
He braced a knee on the bed beside her for leverage.
She gripped his thigh as he hovered above her, hands possessive on her breasts as he fucked her cleavage with long, slow strokes.