25 #2
“First,” he says, “I want to take off this dress and taste your pretty tits.” He trails his hand down my side, my hip, my thigh, coming to rest at the hem of my dress. When he pauses, I realize he’s waiting for permission.
“Yes. Do it.”
He pushes up the dress up slowly, savoring every inch, until I’m bare beneath him, the silk trapped under my arms revealing my braless chest. He moans as he sucks me into his mouth, and the vibration goes straight to my core.
I arch my back, desperate for more, needing him everywhere.
His thumb replaces his mouth and he’s moving to my other breast, lavishing it with equal attention until I’m squirming under him.
“Careful,” he says, peeking up at me with another teasing lick. “Don’t move too much. You wouldn’t want me to have to stop, would you?”
“God, you’re annoying,” I sigh, closing my eyes and arching up towards him again. But that was a mistake.
Now, instead of giving me more, he gives less—peppering the lightest kisses around the outer edge of my breast, down to my stomach, never where I want him.
“Owen,” I whine, more needy by the second. “Please.”
Heat flares behind his eyes as he finally brings his mouth back to my breast, licking and sucking in the perfect way as his fingers tease my other nipple. I can hear myself moaning—loudly—but I don’t care. A good job deserves praise, and he’s doing a very, very good job.
When he pulls his mouth away, I’m prepared to beg for it back. But before I can, Owen starts shifting down the mattress.
“Now I want to taste that perfect pussy.”
His motions are languid, kissing messily along my stomach until he reaches the waistband of my thong, pausing to look up at me.
I’m really trying to be good, but my patience has its limits. “Just do it. God, Owen, do it now.”
The right side of his mouth stretches into a sinful grin. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
Even in the heat of the moment he takes his time, hooking his fingers under the waistband and pulling down until he’s stripped me entirely.
He pauses, standing at the foot of the bed to enjoy the view, and for the briefest moment I actually catch myself worrying about how I look—completely bare except for the dress messily pushed up under my arms, vulnerable at an odd angle below him.
But he bites his lip with undeniable hunger, eyes glazed and electric as he says, “You are unreal.”
And the world is turned on its head.
Because as Owen gets on his knees before me, crawling back to me on the mattress, I’ve never felt more powerful.
I don’t have to do anything, say anything. My presence alone has him desperate and greedy, ready to offer tenderness and pleasure, yet one word from me would send him away. It’s a heady rush of power, part submission and part control. I’ve never experienced anything like it.
Owen comes to rest between my legs. And just as he’s lowering his mouth to me, when I’m so turned on I might explode from the first touch of his tongue, he pauses—less than an inch between his mouth and the core of my need—and blows a gentle, cool breath over the place where I ache for him.
I can’t control the sound that escapes me, or the way my hips rise towards him, begging him to bridge the gap. He tucks his shoulders under my thighs, wrapping his big hands around my hips and pulling me closer. Then finally—finally—he drags his tongue over me in a long, slow path.
“Oh,” I groan, pressing my palms into the wall above the bed. I’m untethered, needing an anchor, but desperate to preserve the fragile physical thread of this moment. “More. Please. Give me more.”
And he does. His fingers press needy reds into the soft flesh of my hips and his pace increases, tongue flicking over me with the same passion and dedication he gives to everything in his life.
I can’t help but cry his name to the ceiling, until, with one final lick, he pulls back, repositioning himself to crawl back up my body.
At the top of the mattress, he lowers his face over mine, lips a millimeter away. Everything he does is controlled, nothing rushed or assumed. And just when I think he’ll lower his mouth to mine, instead he reaches up to check the knot in the yarn, giving it a small tightening tug.
He winked down at me, “Just checking.”
Despite myself, I feel a broad smile crack across my face. “You’re the worst.”
“Am I?” he asks, lowering himself to just above my lips again. “Because I was about to take my clothes off and fuck you. But if I’m the worst—”
I cut him off, jolting forward to capture his mouth with mine, and I can feel him smiling through the kiss.
And that moment, right then, is when I realize I’m in love with him.
Because for all the games we play, for all our teasing and fighting and missteps, Owen Walsh lights up when I’m truest to myself.
He brings out the realest parts of me. And I’m well aware those parts aren’t all good or palatable.
I’m impatient and demanding and critical and brutal.
But he sees it all, and still he smiles against my lips.
“Owen,” I say between kisses, abandoning my pride completely in the light of this realization. “You’re not the worst. You’re the best. Now please, please fuck me.” I bite his lip for good measure before adding, “I need it.”
He growls, then pulls back off the bed. Every intimate part of me is exposed as he pulls off his shirt, then his pants. My legs fall open, inviting him there. My chest rises and falls with heavy breaths and I let it—I let him see exactly what he does to me.
The last of his clothes hits the floor and he’s so hard it looks painful.
“Look at what you do to me, Lia.” He brazenly takes hold of himself, driving his fist up and down as he stalks towards the bed. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. And you know it, don’t you?” His grin tells me just how much he likes that, likes my confidence, likes me.
Dammit, how could I not be in love with him?
“Yes,” I say, staring shamelessly at the evidence of his desire. “I can tell.”
My smirk adds fuel to his fire. He’s on the bed in a flash, positioning himself between my legs and wasting no time as he drags himself tantalizingly across the place I need him.
“Fuck,” he groans. “So wet for me.” He leans forward to kiss me again, grinding his hips forward, driving my need higher.
“God,” I groan against his mouth. “Will you fuck me already?”
He chuckles as he sits back up, trailing his hands down my body. Over my breasts, my waist, my hips. Moving his palms to my inner thighs and spreading me wider.
“Well, you have been good. Maybe you deserve a reward.”
I recognize my own words in his mouth, but am honestly too turned on to laugh or mock him for it. Instead I just say, “Please.”
He takes hold of his shaft again, stroking once more before finally—finally—guiding himself inside me. We both moan in relief, but I need more, need him so badly, need him to take whatever he wants so I can let go—not think about a thing except for how good he feels inside me.
And he knows. Somehow, he always knows, because he starts moving his hips, and it’s deep and slow and everything I need.
His lips are on my face, my neck, my chest, taking me out of my head and into my body where I want to stay forever, with him, hearing praise whispered in my ear as my pleasure grows higher.
And yet lost as I am in passion, I don’t let the yarn break.
“I can’t believe—” I rasp into his ear “—how good this is. I can’t believe I like this. But you’re so fucking sexy when you’re in charge.”
He kisses me deeper, twining his fingers into my hair as he thrusts into me, deeper, savoring. For a moment, this thing between us teeters off the edge of lustful into tender. His motions slow, and he looks into my eyes as he says, “Thank you.”
“For what?” I ask.
“For everything.” He trails one hand up my arm until his fingers close over my wrists, the single piece of yarn there, my offering to him.
“This whole trip.” He kisses me again. “You’re fantastic company, your body is ridiculous.
” I laugh between brushes of his lips. “But your trust… your trust is everything.” His mouth travels across my jaw, then over the pulse in my neck, and his words echo in my bones.
“Your trust makes me feel like I’m worth something.
Like I might have some good in me after all. ”
My instinct is to reach for him, clasp his face in my palms and lock his eyes on mine—but I catch myself.
Now more than ever, I refuse to let the yarn break.
“I trust you,” I whisper. “I think I trust you more than anyone.”
Then he’s kissing me again, this time with no restraint.
His tongue meets mine with desperation and fire, and I hope he can feel all the words I can’t yet say in the press of my body against his.
That I’m his. That I love him. That it terrifies me and thrills me and makes me want things I never thought I would want.
His movements crescendo again and I’m arching into him, giving him everything I have and letting him take what he needs. And I would swear he feels it too. Would swear it’s in the air between us—in the rhythm of our blood pulsing together—that he loves me just as much.
A few more grinding thrusts and I’m gone, crying out with the release and letting the pleasure control me. I feel him pulsing inside me too, groaning my name as he comes, taking his pleasure from mine, filling me with it.
When he’s done, he doesn’t move away. He keeps his eyes on mine as he reaches up to undo the yarn that holds me. He presses a kiss to my forehead, then a kiss to my lips, before he says it again.
“Thank you.”