15. Kiara
— ? —
Kiara
The door to my bedroom closes behind us, and for a moment we just stand there, breathing hard, looking at each other in the dim light filtering through the curtains.
Jensen’s hands are shaking. I can see them trembling at his sides, can see the effort it takes him to keep them there instead of reaching for me. His chest rises and falls with uneven breaths. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, fixed on my face like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he looks away.
“Kiara.” My name comes out rough, scraped raw from somewhere deep in his chest. “I need you to be sure. Because if we start this, I don’t think I can stop. I don’t think I have it in me to stop.”
I reach up and touch his face. His jaw is rough with stubble, the bristles scratching against my palm. His skin is hot under my fingertips, feverish almost.
“I’m sure.”
He closes his eyes. A shudder runs through his whole body, from his shoulders down to his feet.
“I’ve wanted this for so long.” His voice breaks on the words. “I’ve dreamed about touching you. About tasting you. About being inside you again. Every single night I lay in my bed and imagined what it would feel like to have you in my arms again.”
“Then stop talking.” I grab the front of his shirt and pull him toward me. “Stop talking and touch me.”
He moves.
His hands come up to cup my face, his palms warm against my cheeks, and he kisses me. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming, demanding, and I open for him, letting him take whatever he needs.
My back hits the wall. I don’t remember moving, but suddenly the cool plaster is pressed against my shoulder blades and his body is pressed against my front, pinning me in place.
I can feel every inch of him through our clothes. The hard planes of his chest. The muscles of his thighs. And between us, pressing insistently into my stomach, the thick ridge of his erection straining against his jeans.
I moan into his mouth. My hips roll forward without my permission, seeking friction, seeking pressure, and he groans in response. The sound vibrates through both of us.
“Fuck.” He tears his mouth from mine, panting, his forehead pressed against my temple. “I need to slow down. I need to make this good for you. I need to...”
“Don’t slow down.” I grab the hem of his shirt and yank it upward. “I want you.”
He helps me get his shirt off, pulling it over his head and tossing it somewhere behind him. His chest is bare, all smooth skin and defined muscle, and I spread my hands across it, feeling the heat of him.
He’s breathing hard, his stomach clenching with each inhale.
“Your turn,” he says.
He reaches for the buttons of my blouse. His fingers fumble on the first one, clumsy with need, and I hear him curse under his breath as he struggles with the small plastic disc.
“Let me.” I push his hands away gently and undo the buttons myself, one by one, while he watches.
His eyes track every inch of skin I reveal, his gaze heavy and hot on my body.
When I shrug the blouse off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor, he makes a sound low in his throat. A hungry sound. A desperate sound.
“You’re so beautiful.” He reaches out and traces the line of my collarbone with one finger, the touch featherlight.
“I forgot how beautiful you are.” He shakes his head immediately. “No. That’s not true. I didn’t forget. I remembered every detail.” His finger trails lower, tracing the edge of my bra. “But the memory doesn’t compare to this. To you. Standing here in front of me. Real. Touchable.”
I reach behind my back and unhook my bra. I let it fall.
He stops breathing.
For a long moment he just stares at my breasts, his lips parted, his chest still.
Then he reaches out with both hands and cups them gently, reverently, like he’s holding something precious.
His palms are warm and slightly rough against my skin.
His thumbs brush over my nipples, and they harden instantly under his touch.
I gasp. The sensation shoots straight down my spine, pooling hot between my legs.
“Sensitive.” His voice is low, wondering. “You were always so sensitive here. I remember that.”
He does it again, circling my nipples with his thumbs, pressing just slightly, and I do arch into him. I can’t help it. My body remembers him even better than my mind does.
“So responsive,” he murmurs. “So perfect.”
He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth.
The wet heat of his tongue circles the peak, slow and deliberate, and I cry out.
My fingers dig into his shoulders, holding on for balance as my knees threaten to buckle.
He flicks his tongue across the hardened tip, then sucks gently, then harder, and the sensation builds and builds until I’m gasping.
He releases that nipple and moves to the other one, giving it the same attention.
His teeth graze the sensitive flesh, a light scrape that makes me jolt, and then his tongue soothes the sting.
He alternates between licking and sucking and biting until I’m writhing against the wall, my hips rolling helplessly, seeking friction I can’t find.
“Jensen.” I tug at his hair. “I need more. Please. I need more.”
He straightens up and kisses me again, his tongue stroking against mine while his hands work at the button of my pants. He pushes them down over my hips along with my underwear in one motion, and I step out of them, kicking them aside.
I’m naked in front of him. Completely bare. Exposed in a way I haven’t been with anyone in five years.
He steps back and looks at me. Just looks. His eyes move over my body slowly, taking in every curve, every line, every imperfection I’m suddenly acutely aware of.
“I’ve imagined this,” he says, his voice hoarse. “So many times. Lying in my bed alone, picturing you like this. But you’re more perfect than anything I imagined. More beautiful than any fantasy.”
“I’ve had a baby since the last time you saw me naked.” I hear the defensiveness in my own voice. “I have stretch marks. My body is different. I’m not...”
“You’re perfect.” He closes the distance between us and pulls me against him, skin to skin, his arms wrapping around me. “Every mark on your body tells a story. You carried our son inside you. You brought him into the world. You’re a fucking miracle, Kiara. Don’t ever apologize for your body.”
He kisses me again, softer this time. Tender. His hands slide down my back, over the curve of my ass, and he grips me there, pulling me tighter against him. I can feel his erection pressing against my stomach through his jeans, and I want it. I want him. I want everything.
Then his hands move lower, and he lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to his shoulders, and he carries me across the room to the bed. He lays me down on the mattress gently, carefully, like I’m something fragile.
He stands over me, looking down at my body spread across the sheets. His hands go to his belt, but then he stops.
“Not yet,” he says. “I need to taste you first.”
He kneels at the edge of the bed and pulls me toward him by my hips, dragging me across the sheets until my legs are hanging off the edge. He pushes my thighs apart and settles between them, and I feel his breath hot against my center.
He leans in and drags his tongue through my folds, one long slow lick from my entrance to my clit.
I cry out. My hips buck off the bed, and he presses them back down with one strong hand on my stomach.
“Stay still,” he commands. “Let me have this.”
He licks me again, slower this time, savoring. I feel his tongue part my folds, feel him circle my entrance, feel him lap up the wetness that’s gathered there.
“Fuck, you taste good.” He groans against me, and the vibration makes me gasp. “Even better than I remembered. I could eat this pussy for hours.”
He seals his mouth over my clit and sucks.
I scream. The pleasure is sudden, almost too intense. My hands fly to his hair, gripping the strands, unsure if I want to push him away or pull him closer.
He doesn’t let up. His tongue flicks against my clit in a rapid rhythm while his lips maintain suction, and I feel the pressure building already, coiling tight in my belly.
“Jensen.” I’m panting, writhing, my hips trying to move despite his hand holding me down. “Jensen, oh God, oh fuck...”
He slides two fingers inside me without warning.
I arch off the bed with a wail. His fingers curl, finding the spot inside me that makes my vision blur, and he strokes it in time with his tongue on my clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I can only feel.
“That’s it.” He pulls his mouth away just long enough to speak, his fingers still moving inside me. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you. I want to hear every sound you make.”
He bends his head and licks me again, his tongue circling my clit while his fingers pump in and out. The wet sounds fill the room, obscene and perfect. I’m so wet I can feel it dripping down to the sheets.
“You’re dripping for me.” His voice is thick with arousal. “So wet. So ready. This pussy missed me, didn’t it?”
“Yes.” The word comes out as a sob. “Yes, I missed you. I missed this. Please, Jensen, please...”
“Please what?”
“Make me come. I need to come. Please.”
He growls against me and redoubles his efforts. His tongue moves faster, harder, pressing against my clit with just the right amount of pressure. His fingers curl and stroke, hitting that spot over and over. I feel the orgasm building, rising like a wave, and I’m powerless to stop it.
“Come for me,” he commands. “Come on my tongue. Let me taste it.”
I shatter.
My inner walls clench and pulse around his fingers, and he keeps going, licking, stroking, drawing out every last tremor until I’m sobbing and shaking and begging him to stop.
He pulls back slowly, pressing kisses to my inner thighs, my hip bones, my stomach. His chin is wet. His lips are glistening. He looks up at me with dark eyes and licks his lips.
“I could do that forever,” he says. “I could live between your thighs and die a happy man.”