Chapter 29 #3
And in a way that made me think I was ready for it. For whatever he had in store for me.
“When it comes to me?” I asked, begging him to finish his sentence between one kiss and the next. Usually, I preferred men with their mouths shut, but I loved hearing him talk.
“I thought I could knock on your door and explain why this shouldn’t happen.
” I didn’t need an explanation; I knew exactly why.
Because we were rivals battling for the same job, trying to impress the same people.
And because in every sense of the word, this was making things way more complicated.
“I thought I could be reasonable and just talk to you. I took precautions to make sure I could.”
My hips rolled against his instinctively. Nothing about it was under my control. “Precautions?”
Elliot laughed into my mouth, and the sound bled together with a gasp, a groan, a damn-near moan.
“You want to hear how I sat in bed, jerking off to the thought of you on top of me just like this?” His hand slipped into my shorts, grazing the lace of my panties, eliciting more delicious sounds from him.
“How I know it’s wrong, it shouldn’t matter, but I could combust just thinking about being your first? ”
I moaned against his lips; an encouragement, permission.
“That just the thought of slipping inside of you made me come so hard, I was scared you’d hear me through the walls?”
“God, Elliot—”
“And still, none of that helped me keep a cool head. You bat those beautiful lashes of yours, Maeve, and I’m a goner.
” He flipped us back, hovering above me again.
Somehow, my head had made it to my pillow, and he’d made it between my legs.
“I came ten minutes ago, and still, I’m so hard for you it hurts. ”
I could feel it. Pressing against the inside of my thigh, heat pooling between my legs, and an ache in my core that hurt, too.
“I want you.” So badly, I barely managed to get the words out.
His hips drove against mine, the feel of his cock so unexpected, I groaned. He sucked and nibbled the skin below my ear, tried to drown his own sounds out by cursing them into my skin. Unsuccessfully.
“Fuck,” he said. “You keep saying the wrong things. I came here to talk to you. To explain. Not—”
It felt like the right thing to do, reaching for his crotch; feeling him in the palm of my hand, twitching at the touch. “I think that just means I’m saying the right things.”
“You’re killing me” was all he retorted.
His kisses traveled down my chest, stomach, hips. His hands followed, grazing my nipples, scraping my shorts down my legs until they hung at my ankles, and a single kick made them land on the floor.
My eyes closed, but I could still see the scene clearly in my head. The way he kissed up my inner thigh, played with the seam of my panties until finally—finally—pressing a single kiss against my core.
I shuddered at the touch. He groaned into the fabric. “You’re so sensitive,” he mumbled, not intended for my ears. But I was so aware of everything he was doing, saying, and feeling, that nothing he did could escape me.
A single finger slid from my hips all the way between my legs, up and down my folds once. He muttered a string of appreciation against me that ended in “I can’t believe you’re this wet for me.”
“Me neither.” But my laugh turned into a moan. Feeling his breath against me, his finger teasing, barely touching.
“Can I?”
Thank God his question finally made me open my eyes again, or I might’ve missed the way he looked up at me. Like he was asking for a million dollars, not whether he could touch me. Like the possibility of me saying no was a real one at all.
It wasn’t.
“Please,” I said, and he complied.
My head fell back again, my eyes closed, and all I could hear and see and feel was Elliot. Moaning against my core, his tongue against my clit, his hands pushing my hips into the mattress. His finger teasing my entrance, never fully pushing inside of me, always just pretending to.
Sorry, Satisfyer Pro 2. I’ll never be able to go back to you after this.
My hips tried to buck, but he held them in place with one hand. The next time I opened my eyes, his other hand was busy with himself.
I would’ve loved to offer my support, but I was in no condition to say anything, never mind sit up and take initiative. It took enough effort to stay still below his touch.
No matter how good this—he—felt, though, my orgasm was unexpected.
As unexpected as his finger finally, gently, slowly slipping inside of me, then adjusting to the rhythm of his tongue.
Deliciously slow, feverishly hot, and so good, I came without being able to give him a heads-up.
He interpreted my body perfectly regardless.
Like it was speaking a language invented just for him to understand.
Something still coiled in the pit of my stomach when his face popped into my field of vision. Proud smile on his lips.
“You are spectacular, Maeve Peterson. Absolutely spectacular.”
And it was the last thing I heard before drifting off to sleep. Content, satisfied, happy.