Chapter 18 – Lena #2
His thigh pressed between mine. The friction through my leggings punched a gasp out of me and he did it again --- on purpose, rolling his hips so I could feel him through the towel, hard and thick against me.
The fabric did nothing, absolutely nothing, and the sound I made would've been humiliating if I had a single functioning brain cell left.
I did not.
"Trace." His name came out broken.
"Say it again."
His mouth dragged to my jaw. My throat. That spot below my ear --- the one, the exact one. His thigh rocked and I ground down, chasing it, my hips moving on their own. Good. So good. But the cotton and lycra blunted everything just enough to make me crazy.
I whimpered into his neck and dug my fingers into his shoulders, trying to angle my hips to get more and failing.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his pupils blown so wide they'd nearly swallowed the ice green of his irises, jaw tight, chest heaving like he'd just come off the ice.
"Tell me to stop." His voice was ragged, barely holding together.
"No."
"Lena." He pressed his forehead to mine and I could feel his whole body shaking against me, every muscle locked.
His hand was still on my hip, fingers flexing, and his hips were still flush against mine like his body refused to listen to whatever his mouth was trying to do.
"Tell me to stop. Because I can't ---" He swallowed hard. "I'm not going to be able to."
I could feel him through the towel. Hard and hot against my thigh. His breath was ragged on my mouth.
"Please," I whispered.
He went still. "Please what?"
"Please don't stop."
Something behind his eyes caught fire.
He lifted me off the wall --- hands under my thighs, zero effort, which was rude and also very much appreciated --- and turned. Two steps. He tossed me onto the bed and I bounced on the slate-gray comforter, looking up at him.
His towel was barely hanging on, his hair wrecked from my hands, mouth swollen, those green eyes nearly black now.
I did that.
He came down over me, one knee between my thighs, and kissed me slower this time.
Deeper. Like now that he had me in his bed, he was going to take his goddamn time about it.
My hands found his chest and went where they wanted --- down his pecs, over his stomach, feeling muscles jump under my palms. He was all dense, corded athlete under my hands, warm and still damp from the shower, and my fingers traced the groove of his obliques until he shuddered against my mouth.
Every accidental brush in a hallway. Every loaded look across a room that I'd told myself meant nothing. Every night I'd lain in bed and refused to think about Trace Coulter. All of it was right here under my hands, and I was greedy with it.
He grabbed my sweater hem and broke the kiss long enough to yank it over my head and toss it. I lay beneath him in just my bra --- black lace, sheer enough to hide absolutely nothing --- and he went still.
His eyes dropped to my chest, and through the lace he could see everything --- my nipples dark and hard, straining against the fabric, my chest heaving, the pattern of the lace pressing into my skin.
"Fuck." Barely a whisper.
He stared at me with his jaw slack, brain visibly offline.
"You are so fucking perfect."
His knuckles grazed the curve of my breast through the lace, featherlight, tracing the cup's edge. The texture made everything rougher, sharper, and when his thumb dragged over my nipple through the lace my back arched off the bed.
He didn't take it off. And for some reason, that made it hotter.
"Trace." I didn't know what it was. Plea, command, both.
He lowered his mouth to my left breast, pressing his lips to the swell of skin just above the lace edge --- not there yet, close enough that his breath came hot through the fabric.
He kissed down, mouth dragging over the cup, tongue tracing the lace while I squirmed under him.
My fingers dug into the thick muscles of his back, gripping the bulk of his shoulders, pulling.
His mouth closed over my nipple through the lace, and the wet heat of his tongue against the rough fabric hit me so hard I forgot how to breathe.
I wasn't ready. He sucked gently first, testing, feeling my spine arch, the sound catching in my throat.
The lace went see-through where his mouth had been, clinging to me, and through the wet fabric every pull of his lips hit harder.
Filthier. The barrier didn't dull anything. It made it worse.
A moan ripped out of me so loud I slapped my hand over my mouth.
He caught my wrist and pulled it away. "Don't." Words vibrating through the wet lace against my nipple. "I want to hear you."
He moved to the other side and this time there was no teasing.
He sucked my nipple through the lace hard enough that my hips came off the bed.
Wet fabric dragged against the stiff peak and I cried out.
My hands raked through his hair, nails on his scalp, and the groan he made against my breast went straight between my legs.
His teeth caught my nipple through the lace --- gentle, just enough pressure to feel the bite of fabric and the edge of teeth together --- and I fisted his hair so tight it had to hurt.
He didn't stop. His hand palmed my other breast, thumb rolling over the soaked lace where his mouth had just been.
I could feel every ridge of his thumbprint through the wet fabric.
Done. I was done. My hips ground against his thigh on their own, chasing friction.
The wet lace clung to both nipples now, ruined, hiding nothing, and every shift of his body dragged damp fabric across skin that was already wrecked.
My hands went everywhere --- shoulders, biceps, the ridges of muscle down his spine that flexed when he moved.
His mouth dragged up my chest, my throat, my jaw, found my lips. Hard length of him against my center through my leggings. He rolled his hips and his bare chest scraped my nipples through the wet lace and I whimpered into his mouth.
It wasn't enough. The lace, the leggings, everything between us --- close but never landing. I made a frustrated noise and my hips bucked against him.
His hand slid down. Over the front of my leggings. Heel of his palm pressed against me and my whole body jerked.
"Can I touch you?" His voice was low and serious, his eyes locked on mine.
"Yes." I was begging and I didn't care.
His fingers rubbed slow circles over the seam of my leggings, right where I needed him, and even through two layers the pressure bowed my back off the bed.
His mouth on mine, tongue deep, fingers keeping that rhythm until I was panting against his lips and making sounds I'd think about with my face in a pillow for the rest of my life.
But the barrier. Every pass close but blunted. I chased his hand, hips rocking, making a frustrated noise, and he pulled back to read my face.
"You need something to clench around?"
I couldn't speak. I just nodded.
He held my gaze and brought his hand to his mouth, drawing two fingers between his lips, slow, his tongue wetting them while he watched me watch him.
My chest was heaving and my brain had checked out approximately two minutes ago.
His hand slid down under the waistband of my leggings, under the cotton of my panties, and his fingers slid through me, slick and hot. I sucked in air through my teeth.
He stopped with his fingertips resting at my entrance, barely pressing, his eyes fixed on my face.
"Look at me."
I did.
He slid the first finger inside me, slow, watching my face the whole time --- my lips parting, my brow creasing, my breath catching. He wouldn't look away.
"Fuck." His voice was rough, almost reverent. "You're so wet." His thumb grazed my clit and I jerked. "Is that for me, baby?"
I whimpered. My hand found his wrist --- not stopping him, just holding on. He curled his finger and my hips came off the mattress.
"Trace," I whispered.
He stilled. His eyes searched my face. "That okay? You want me to stop?"
I answered by parting my thighs wider and pressing his hand deeper, his finger sinking into me until I felt his knuckle against my skin. My breath came out shaky and raw.
"Holy fuck," he breathed, his forehead dropping to mine. "Yeah? That feel good?"
"So good," I managed, and my voice cracked on both words. "Don't stop."
"Not a chance." He curled his finger again and I arched into him, my hand tightening on his wrist. "You're shaking, baby. You want more?"
I nodded before the question was even finished.
He watched. Every twitch. Every breath.
Then he added a second finger.
The stretch hit hard. My hands flew to his shoulders --- not quite pushing away, not quite pulling closer. My body caught between too much and don't you dare stop. My fingers dug into the muscle near his falcon tattoo and he went still. Immediately.
"Hey." His voice went soft. His free hand cupped my jaw, thumb on my cheek. Forehead on mine. "Too much?"
My eyes were squeezed shut, my breath coming in shallow bursts. "Slowly," I got out. "Please."
"Okay." He pressed his lips to my temple and lingered there. "I got you."
He moved. Achingly slow, easing deeper by fractions. My grip loosened. My body unclenched, bit by bit, until the stretch went from too much to full to God, right there.
"There you go." Against my cheek. "That's it."
His thumb found my clit. Paused. "How do you want it?"
I opened my eyes. His face was right there, patient and focused, not moving until I told him to.
"Pressure." Barely a breath. "More pressure."
"Like this?" Slow, firm circle. My whole body shook.
"Yes --- like that, like ---"
"Faster or slower?"
"Faster. A little."
He adjusted. Tight circles, pressing harder, fingers curled inside me. Both sensations hit at once and I cried out.
"That's it?" Against my mouth. Lips barely brushing.
"That's it. Don't stop. Please don't ---"