Fifteen #2
“How do you like to come?” She feels his breath on her clit, has to bite back a plea for him to put his mouth there. But more than anything, she wants to sob with relief. Not because he’s finally—finally—touching her, but…
He’s asking. And the way he watches her like whatever she says will give him eternal life is so different from Nash and his dismissal of what turns her on. What gets her off.
“From—my clit,” she breathes.
Her lashes flutter, panting when he inserts only the tip of his finger before pulling out.
His eyes are nearly black with desire. “Ah, the elusive clitoris,” he hums, pressing his cheek against her thigh, holding her gaze as he brushes his lips along the sensitive skin.
“Most—most people with vaginas can’t come from—from penetration alone,” she whispers, and he watches her like he’s a drowning man, and she’s the only person within miles who can save him.
“And do you like it fast? Slow?” Another kiss on her inner knee, his finger a barely-there presence in her folds.
She bites her lip, stifling a needy whine. “Slow at—at first,” she pants. “And then—then faster. With light to—to medium pressure.”
“Can you give me a demonstration?”
Heat crawls up her neck and across her face.
Moving her fingers to her clit, she shudders at the first brush, at how slick she is, how aroused she is in front of him.
Her mouth drops open to let out a quiet whine, and she drops her head back against the pillows, showing him exactly how she touches herself when she’s alone.
“Eyes on me,” he commands.
She locks her gaze on his heavy-lidded eyes. She’s never felt so turned on in her life.
“So beautiful.” His eyes drift to her fingers, a look of open wonder and awe crossing his handsome face. She forces herself not to feel embarrassed, not to look away, watching his lips curl with satisfaction.
His hands slide up her thighs like he’s memorizing every inch of her body, his eyes fixed on her fingers. She releases another whine when his lips skim the inner part of her thigh before his fingers cover hers.
“Can I try?”
She nearly stops breathing. His hands—those glorious, capable hands—gently remove hers, and she can’t look away from his face as he slips one finger and then another inside her.
“Fuck,” she groans, her hips bucking as he brushes her clit with his thumb.
“You’ll be sure to tell me if I’m doing it wrong?” That smug smile returns, his thumb and forefinger sliding over her.
She nods vigorously, fisting his duvet. “Yes—oh.” Her mouth pops open, and she writhes against his fingers, panting, wanting, so worked up she can’t think. He continues with the same pace and pressure, languid and fully in control even as she unravels. “Quinn, I’m—”
His touch is so much better than she ever imagined, his fingers deft and articulate, spelling out words of pleasure inside her.
He nips her thigh. “I love seeing you come undone like this.”
She is a woman possessed, bucking against his hand.
“Wes,” she gasps without thinking, because what are thoughts when he’s touching her?
He stops.
“Why—”
“Say it again.”
She inhales at the intensity in his gaze, in his words.
“My name,” he says in a delicious undertone. “Say it again.”
She does. She moans. “Please don’t stop.”
“Gorgeous.” He increases his pace, and she feels something tighten, twisting in her center. “Fucking gorgeous.”
More, she thinks. I need more—
Until she is no longer thinking at all because she is burning, burning, burning, her pleasure coiling tighter and tighter—
“Wes, I’m—I’m going—”
She’s incoherent, but he knows what she needs. He moves his fingers faster, and she rides his hand while he coaxes her on.
“Come on, Charlie,” he commands. “Don’t hold back on me.”
She shatters, falling over the edge.
He maintains his rhythm until she whimpers and grabs his wrist. He lets out a deep chuckle that feels like the heat of whiskey unfurling in her veins.
Slowly he removes his fingers. “Good?”
With her head tipped back against the pillows, she nods. The bed dips, and he shifts, moving up her body. His lips brush her temple, sliding over her jaw.
Opening her eyes, she finds him studying her, a satisfied grin on his lips.
“That was…” She searches and fails to articulate exactly what it was, tries reconciling what she just experienced with the feelings she’s been trying to suppress for years.
Has it always been like this? Like if he didn’t touch as much of her as possible, she’d erupt? Like heat would consume her?
She lets out a breathy laugh, limp and sated, the most relaxed she’s felt in days.
“It was,” he agrees without her needing to explain. They look at each other, and she sees something flash across his face before vanishing.
He presses an open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder before starting to move off the bed, but she grasps his wrist before she can stop herself. His eyes snap to their hands, his brows rising.
Rising to her knees, she presses a palm to his chest. His pectoral muscles jump, his gaze searching her face, a question in his eyes. She remembers how she got herself off the other night to the thought of him, and she wants to touch him, wants to make him feel as good as she does.
She smiles. “My turn.”
His eyes widen, his enticing mouth popping open with surprise.
“Teach me how to touch you,” she whispers, echoing his earlier request. “Show me how to make you feel good.”
His mouth snaps shut, throat bobbing. His heart thuds under her palms. A noise like he’s being strangled slips from his lips, and he swallows again.
For one horrifying moment, Charlie thinks she’s made a mistake.
But then his lips curve, and he climbs back onto the bed.
Spreading his legs, he leans back against the pillows, like he’s reclining on the beach, not at all like he’s about to teach her how to get him off.
She takes in her fill of him, appreciating the ridges of his stomach, the definition in his torso, his muscles rippling with each rise and fall of his chest. Finally, her gaze lands on his groin, the obvious bulge of his arousal that she’s been too distracted to notice until now.
Her pulse races, and she’s filled with a sudden uncertainty, her momentary boldness seeping away in the face of his taut body spread before her.
“Charlie.” Her name on his lips relaxes her. “Come here.”
Gently, he takes her hand, pulling her up his body.
She slings her leg over him, knees bracketing his thighs, and his strong and capable hands curve around her hips, his fingers digging into her bare backside.
When she puts her hands on his chest, she feels his heartbeat, but on the surface he is calm, watching her with a heady arousal that makes her forget she’s kneeling half naked on his bed.
Slowly, he leans forward and presses his lips to her throat. “Breathe, Charlie. We’ll only go as far as you want.”
He traces his mouth over her neck, his lips searing her skin. She gasps, desperate to hear her name on his lips again.
She channels his confidence from earlier. “I want to. If you teach me how.”
Exploring the wide expanse of his chest, she moves her fingers over his powerfully built shoulders, running them down the biceps she’s tried to ignore. Maintaining eye contact, she drags her hand down his stomach and presses it to his groin.
He’s so hard.
“Jesus fuck,” he groans, tipping his head back against the pillows. She pauses, hesitating, but he grips her thighs. “Go on. I love when you touch me.”
Slowly, she rubs her hand over his length, feeling his size. She has very little prior reference, but he feels bigger than she expects.
Pressing her free hand into the pillows, she leans forward and brings her mouth to his throat.
He gasps. Taking this as encouragement, she sucks on his skin, tasting salt, inhaling the scent of what she thinks is his body wash.
His fingers grip her hip, digging in hard enough to bruise, and she traces a path up the taut tendons in his neck to his pulse point.
“God, Charlie,” he breathes.
She pulls back, smiling.
His eyes are glassy with desire, his cheeks flushed.
Her fingers dip under the waistband of his joggers. “Can I—”
He nods before she finishes. “Fuck, please.”
He lifts his hips off the bed, and using both hands, she drags his joggers and boxers down, pulling them all the way off his legs.
Her mouth goes dry at the sight of his cock, erect, tip glistening, and of Wesley Quinn completely naked, spread out before her like the most mouthwatering feast. She traces the line of his obliques with her fingers, and his stomach muscles jump and flex under her touch.
When she slides her hand along the length of his cock, he shivers.
“Touch me,” he rasps. Before she can comply, he grabs her wrist, licks her palm, and places it firmly on his shaft. “Like this.”
He wraps her fingers around him, shifting his hand along his length. His eyes flutter closed, his lips pressed together. If she didn’t know any better, she’d assume he was in pain.
“Tighter,” he grits out. “With a twist at the top. You won’t hurt me.”
She follows his instructions, twisting her wrist like he said.
He groans, his breathing ragged. “Oh my god.” He throws an arm over his eyes, and she moves her hand faster. “Oh my god. Keep going—just—just like that—fuck.”
“This is okay?” she whispers.
He nods, not looking at her, his mouth falling open with a moan. “God, yes. Like that. Exactly like that. You have no idea how long—keep going—”