20. Chapter 20 #2
When I surface again, the light has shifted — early afternoon light slanting through the blinds.
My body registers the change first: the solid heat of Matt's chest against my back, the weight of his arm still circling my waist, and the unmistakable hardness of his erection pressed into the curve of my ass.
I don't move. I just lie there, feeling the thick length of him through the thin cotton of his boxers, the way it nestles against the cleft of my cheeks. My skin prickles with awareness, heat pooling low in my belly.
I press back. Just slightly — just enough to feel him shift against me, the friction sending a spark of sensation through my core.
His arm tightens around my waist. His breath changes, catching for just a moment before evening out again. Still asleep. Or mostly asleep.
I do it again, a slow roll of my hips, pushing my ass against his cock. The friction drags a soft sound from my own throat.
His hand moves. Slides from my waist to my hip, fingers curling into the flesh there, gripping. His hips rock forward in response — an instinctive thrust that presses him harder against me.
"Isla." His voice is rough with sleep, gravel-edged and low.
"Mm." I push back again, deliberate this time. "You were sleeping."
"You're making that difficult."
"Am I?" I reach behind me, my fingers finding the waistband of his boxers. I slip my hand inside, wrapping my fingers around his cock — hot and hard, the skin silk over steel. He hisses against my neck.
"You started this," I murmur, stroking him slowly. "How can I sleep with this pressed against me?"
His hand slides from my hip to the front of my underwear, fingers dipping beneath the elastic. He finds me wet — already slick and swollen — and groans against my hair. His fingertips trace through the wetness, slowly circling my clit with maddening patience.
"Matt." My voice cracks on his name.
He tugs my underwear down my thighs. I kick them off somewhere toward the foot of the bed. Then his cock is free too, and he's guiding himself between my legs, the thick head sliding through my folds, coating himself in my arousal.
"Tell me you want this," he says against my ear. His hand grips my hip, holding me still.
"I want this." The words come out breathless. "I want you. Please, Matt. Please."
"God, I love hearing you beg."
He notches himself at my entrance and pushes in slowly. My body resists for a moment — still adjusting, still waking — then yields, opening around his girth. The stretch is exquisite, that first deep ache of being filled. I gasp, my fingers clutching the pillow beneath my head.
He sinks in to the hilt and stills, his chest pressed flat against my back, his breath hot and unsteady against my neck. We lie there for a long moment, joined, his cock pulsing inside me.
Then he starts to move.
The rhythm is slow at first — lazy, rolling thrusts that drag against every nerve ending.
This angle is different, deeper, and each stroke presses against that spot inside me that makes my vision blur.
I push back to meet him, our bodies moving in tandem, the sound of skin against skin soft and rhythmic in the quiet room.
His hand slides up my ribs to cup my breast, thumb brushing my nipple. I arch into his palm, a moan slipping free.
"Harder," I breathe.
He obliges. His hips snap forward, driving into me with more force, and the pleasure spikes sharp and bright. His fingers pinch my nipple, rolling the tight peak, and I'm gasping — little broken sounds that I can't seem to control.
His other hand slides down my stomach, finding my clit again. He circles it in time with his thrusts, and the dual sensation is overwhelming — the fullness of his cock inside me, the precise attention of his fingers, the heat of his body wrapped around mine.
"Come for me," he says, his voice rough against my ear. "Let go."
I do. The orgasm rolls through me in waves, my inner walls clenching around him, my body shaking in his arms. He groans, his rhythm faltering, and then he's following me over the edge — spilling into me in hot pulses, his forehead pressed to the back of my neck, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
We stay like that, tangled together, his cock softening inside me. His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer.
I trace a slow line down his forearm, still catching my breath.
"Next time," I say, half into the pillow, "I want to try something.
" He goes still in the way that means he's listening with his whole body.
I tell him. He's quiet for a second, and then I feel him smile against my shoulder.
"Yeah?" "Yeah." "Okay," he says. "Next time. "
I must doze off again, because I wake up a little later alone, but the door to the master bathroom is ajar and I hear the shower running.
I stretch and make my way into the bathroom. Matt is inside, water sluicing down the broad planes of his back, and he glances over his shoulder when I step in.
"Room for two?"
"Get in here."
I slide past him into the spray, letting the hot water run over my shoulders and down my spine. He reaches for my bodywash, the expensive kind that smells like bergamot and rose — and works it between his hands until it lathers.
"Turn around," he says.
I do, and his hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots I didn't realize I was carrying.
The massage is efficient, thorough, and I let my head fall forward as he works his way down my spine.
Then his hands curve around my ribs, sliding up toward my breasts, and the efficiency becomes something else entirely.
"You're supposed to be helping me get clean," I say, but there's no complaint in my voice.
"I am." His palms cup my tits, thumbs dragging over my nipples, and I arch into his touch. The water runs between us, turning the soap slick, and he takes his time — kneading, circling, pinching just hard enough to make me gasp.
"Matt."
"Mm." His mouth finds the curve of my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin below my ear, while his hands continue their relentless attention to my breasts. My nipples are peaked and aching, and every pull of his fingers sends a jolt of heat straight to my core.
"You're not cleaning. You're — ah —" His thumb flicks, and I lose the thread of my sentence.
"Getting you dirty first," he finishes. "Counter-intuitive, I know."