Chapter 23 #4
The other part of my brain is simply and completely determined to prove itself.
I want to learn exactly what she needs and give it to her until she stops bracing for disappointment and starts expecting to be taken care of. I want to hear every one of those soft sounds again, and again, and again until they stop surprising her too.
But my thigh alone isn’t going to be enough.
I break the kiss, and she makes a small protesting sound, her hips still moving, chasing the friction. I have to close my eyes for exactly one second. “Let me take care of you,” I say against her mouth. “Can I do that? Will you let me?”
She hesitates, then nods.
I take her hips and guide her back over my lap so she’s straddling both my thighs properly, and then I take her chin between my fingers, holding her face, keeping her eyes on mine.
“Yes?”
Her pupils have blown so wide the blue has almost disappeared. Dark and wanting, nodding into my hand, her whole body leaning into the hold.
“Yes,” she breathes out.
I give her a soft approving peck and pull back. “Good girl.”
Then I reach under her skirt, find the seam of her stockings, that single line running straight up the center, pulled taut against her, take the fabric in both hands, and pull.
The sound she makes when they tear open is a gasp so loud it fills the whole room.
I let my palm slide over the lace underneath, up and down, and groan at the heat of her, at how warm she is, how the air has gone sweet and sour with lemon and something underneath it that is entirely her.
I bring my ring and middle finger to her lips. “Make them sopping wet for me, darling.”
Her eyes flutter. Then her lips part, and she takes my fingers into her mouth and sucks, her tongue moving slowly, and I watch her do it and think about her doing this somewhere else. The thought nearly whites me out entirely.
I am a professional. I am a composed, disciplined, celibate professional.
Pulling my fingers free, I kiss her again to keep her from thinking and let my hand slide back down. I push the lace aside, and at first, I cup her, feeling the soft, plush weight of her there, the warmth of her, how she’s so perfectly full against my palm.
God.
I’ve thought about her thighs, about the soft curve of her waist, about every generous, warm inch of her, but her cunt is fucking perfect.
I dive into her slit and circle her clit with two slick fingers. Lennon gasps into my mouth, then breaks the kiss to breathe. Her forehead drops to mine, then lower, falling against my shoulder, and I keep circling, steady and unhurried, while she falls apart inch by inch.
“Paul, please—”
“Please what, darling?”
Her only reply is a whimper. No words.
I keep my pace, my focus solely on her and definitely not the ache building in my cock. “Let me hear you.”
The moan she gives me is loud, helpless, and completely unguarded, and I feel my cock actually leak in response, which has never happened to me before in my adult life.
“You’re making it so hard for me to hold back.
” My voice is barely recognizable as mine.
“So-fucking-sexy. The sounds you make. Your hips.” I watch her grind against my hand, and something primal and inarticulate takes over my entire nervous system.
“God, Lennon. All I want right now is to pull down my jeans and impale you on my cock.”
“Please.” A whimper against my neck. “Please, please, please…”
I shift my thumb to her clit, keeping the circles, while my fingers drift lower, and I feel it. She’s wet. Not much, but she’s there, she’s getting there, and I feel accomplished in a way that bypasses every rational thought I have, some deep animal satisfaction at the proof of it.
“I want to fill you up,” I tell her while my fingers find her entrance.
“I want to slide into you so slowly. Feel you open up around me.” I press in one finger, careful, God, she’s tight, and she makes a sound that makes my hips buck upward without my permission.
“Tell you how good your cunt feels wrapped around my cock while I’m buried inside you. ”
She moans, head thrown back, throat bared, hips starting to move with my hand in a rhythm that is going to kill me.
I kiss her neck. Then bite, just enough to feel her gasp and arch into it, her pulse jumping against my lips.
Her jaw is next, the soft skin there, and I drag my teeth along it slowly before I pull back to take in the deep flush across her chest. Her breasts are right there, the sweater cut low, her cleavage full, warm, and basically in my face.
I lose the last negotiation I was having with myself, lean down, and drag my tongue up the swell of one breast before closing my teeth around the soft flesh in a bite that makes her cry out and tighten around my finger all at once.
I slide a second finger inside, and my breath stutters.
She moans louder, so I pull her sweater down slightly, and look at the lace of her bra, the way it cradles her, and I think I actually forget my own name for a second.
“Such a pretty bra,” I murmur against her skin. “Such pretty underwear.” I mouth along the line where lace meets skin. “Did you wear them for yourself?”
“No.” Her voice is wrecked. “For you.”
The sound I make is not dignified. I press my lips to the top of her breast in something that is half a kiss and half a prayer, and my thumb keeps circling, and my fingers keep moving. She continues riding my hand, and I suck a mark into the soft skin above her bra just because I can’t help it.
“Don’t force it, darling,” I murmur against her chest, feeling how she chases the sensation, how her body is hunting it but tensing at the same time. “Just enjoy and breathe.” I keep my rhythm steady. “Let it come.”
She exhales shakily. “I’m so close.”
“Then give it to me. All of it,” I tell her, mouthing down toward the lace while I pull the sweater down one more inch and find her nipple through the fabric of her bra, the dark shape of it visible through the lace, and I close my mouth over it.
The sound she makes arches her whole body into me.
I suck through the fabric, while my thumb adds more pressure and my fingers curl, her thighs trembling on either side of me. I am drowning in the smell of her, and my entire system is short-circuiting because I can feel myself getting close from this alone.
I tell myself firmly that I will not come before she—
Her cunt clenches around my fingers.
The moan that comes out of her is loud and broken.
Her hips stutter, and she collapses forward into me, full weight, her breasts basically smothering my face, and I think distantly, what a way to go, before I follow her straight over the edge, completely involuntarily.
My balls are drawing tight, and warmth is flooding the inside of my jeans like I’m sixteen years old and have never learned a single thing about self-control.
We stay like that for a few seconds, her breathing hard into my ear and me trying to remember what century it is.
I press my lips to the top of one breast, then the other, and tug her sweater back up. “You okay?”
She leans back to look at me. Her eyes are wide and dazed, and she looks… I don’t have a word for it. Wrecked, soft, and surprised at herself. It makes me want to do it all over again.
I pull my hand free and bring my fingers to my mouth before I can think better of it. The taste of her hits my tongue, and I close my eyes.
Fuck.
I am going to lay her out on every flat surface in this house.
But that is a thought for another afternoon, apparently, because right now, she is stepping back off my lap, pulling her panties back over herself, and smoothing her skirt down over the ruins of her pantyhose, while staring at the front of my jeans.
I follow her gaze.
Well. The wet patch is impressive.
A laugh comes out of me before I can stop it, and I feel heat climb my face, which almost never happens to me. “Seems like you were able to make a mess of my jeans after all.”
“I’m sorry,” she says immediately.
I stand and take her face in both hands.
“I am not complaining.” I look at her steadily, making sure she hears it. “That was…”
“So good,” she breathes out.
I raise an eyebrow.
The corner of her mouth tugs upward, and her eyes drop. She’s shy now, after all of that, which is the single most endearing thing I have ever witnessed.
I press my lips to the beauty mark under her mouth. “I’m glad.”
She’s quiet, and I can see it happening—the warmth retreating incrementally, the self-consciousness moving back in to fill the space it left. Her eyes go somewhere around my collarbone. Her fingers find the hem of her skirt and smooth it down again, even though it doesn’t need smoothing.
“Maybe we should,” she starts, but quickly stops.
“I mean. This was… obviously that was… but maybe we should just…” she looks up at me briefly, then away, “… keep it casual? For now. Take it slow. I don’t want to…
I mean, I just got here, and you’re… and I don’t want to do something stupid because I’m…
” she gestures vaguely at herself, “… you know.”
I look at her.
Casual?
I want to crawl under your skin and entwine my soul with yours.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Let’s take it slow.”
She finally meets my eyes. “Really?”
“Really. That was my plan anyway before you sat on my lap.”
“You sat me on your lap,” she protests, and the corner of her mouth is doing that thing.
“I did escalate,” I agree. “And I owe you a pair of stockings.”
She laughs, and it’s the real one, the full one, and I’m finally able to take a full breath again.
“We have time,” I tell her, and I mean it as the promise it is. “Take however long you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
She looks at me as if she’s trying to decide whether to believe it.
She will. Eventually.