Chapter 8 #2
I press my face to her inner thigh, nuzzling, inhaling the scent of her, letting the anticipation build.
My thumbs hook under her underwear and I drag them down, slow enough she can feel every inch.
She lifts her hips to help, the move confident and urgent and so fucking sexy, I almost lose it right there.
Her cunt is gorgeous: soft, flushed, wet and swollen with want. I don’t look away—I want her to see what she does to me. She’s breathing hard, chest heaving under that ruined dress, and her hands are in my hair, trembling with it.
I kiss her, just above, just below, teasing, letting my breath ghost over her clit until she’s whining, fingers tight in my hair.
“Jordan,” she pleads, a warning and a prayer.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
Her hand tightens. “Don’t tease. I need you.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
I lick her, slow and deep, dragging my tongue from her entrance all the way up to her clit.
She jerks, a full-body shiver, and the sound she makes is raw and perfect.
I do it again, learning the taste and shape of her, tongue mapping every soft fold.
She’s soaked for me, slick and hot, and I cannot get enough.
I set a pace, relentless but steady, lapping at her clit with flat, broad strokes, then circling, then flicking, listening to every sound she makes. She’s responsive as hell, hips rolling to meet my mouth, thighs clamping hard around my ears every time I hit the spot.
I slide a finger inside her, slow at first, curling up to find the sensitive spot on her front wall. She takes it easily, greedy for more. I add a second finger, twisting gently, and she opens for me, desperate and so fucking real.
Her sounds are getting wild now, high and keening, but not embarrassed, not holding back. She rocks against my face, fucking my mouth, and I let her. I want to be used; I want to be the thing that undoes her.
She comes fast, honest and violent, one hand over her mouth like she’s trying not to wake the dead, the other scrabbling against my scalp. Her legs lock around my head, and she shakes, hips grinding against my tongue.
I keep going, fucking her through it, not stopping until she’s limp and wrecked, sweat streaking her cheeks and that beautiful dazed smile breaking open her face.
Her hand is gentle now, stroking my hair, grounding herself. I kiss her thigh, then her clit, gentle, savoring the taste of her.
She catches her breath, then tugs me up, hard and insistent. “Your turn,” she says, voice wrecked and gorgeous.
She yanks me up to stand between her legs and pulls me into a kiss, sucking my bottom lip into her mouth and biting, just enough to make me gasp. Her hands find the waistband of my work pants, working the button open with the competence of someone who’s been thinking about this for a while.
My whole body is a live wire, every nerve ending screaming for her.
She shoves my pants down to mid-thigh, just enough for access; I’m not even sure I care if my boots are still on.
I’m wet, throbbing, desperate for friction, and Maddie knows it.
She grinds against me, no hesitation, skirt hiked up around her waist, her bare, slick cunt pressed right against my boxer briefs.
She cups me through the fabric, slow and possessive, squeezing until I groan, forehead pressed to hers.
“Need you,” she whispers. “Want you to come for me.”
My hands are everywhere: digging into her hips, fisting her skirt, braced on the dresser so I don’t collapse from the want. She reaches into my shorts, finds the slick heat of me, and slides her fingers through, rubbing slow and careful, then hard and fast.
It’s filthy and perfect. I thrust against her hand, hips stuttering, chasing the friction as she works me.
Her other hand is at my jaw, dragging me in for kisses between moans, and the whole time she keeps whispering, “That’s it, Jordan, let go for me, I want to feel you, I want you to come so hard you forget your own name. ”
I bury my face in her neck, biting at her pulse point. She hisses and grinds harder, rocking her cunt against me with every stroke. Our bodies find a rhythm, desperate and raw, and I can’t hold back.
I break, crashing apart with a shout, the pleasure ripping through me so hard I see stars. Maddie holds me up, rocking me through it, kissing my hair and my face and my mouth until I’m boneless in her arms.
I collapse against her, both of us shaking and breathless, paint drying around us, the world a blur of lavender and want.
She laughs, giddy and spent, tucking my hair behind my ear. “You okay?”
I nod, grinning like an idiot. “Yeah. More than okay.”
She beams, smug and soft, and I want to kiss her forever.
So I do.
I drag her mouth back to mine, and the kiss is slow now, deep and sweet, the frantic urgency melted into something steady and warm.
Her hands roam my back, nails scraping gentle.
I hold her face, memorizing the lines of her, the heat of her skin.
Everything about this is right on the edge of overwhelming, but I am done pretending I want anything less.
The room is a disaster, paint cans everywhere, the two of us covered in sweat, paint, and pure, unfiltered satisfaction. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Eventually, she pulls back and just looks at me, blue eyes all soft edges and private delight.
“I’m glad you stayed,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
“Wasn’t planning to go anywhere,” I answer. Which is the truth—the truest thing I’ve ever said.
We stay like that, tangled together, until the world returns in slow increments: the stick of paint on my forearm, the thud of our hearts finally slowing, the way the lavender walls glow in the late afternoon light.
I help her off the dresser, both of us wobbly but laughing. She does a little spin, skirt still bunched at her hips, then presses tight against me, her curves fitting perfectly to every scar and edge of my body.
She curls her fingers into my shirt and leans her head against my chest, and we just stand there, breathing, taking in the room. The paint job is a mess. The wall behind us is streaky and unfinished, like a time-lapse of the world changing underneath our hands.
She looks around and smiles, satisfaction radiating off her. “It’s starting to look like mine,” she says, and I know she doesn’t just mean the bedroom.
“Always was,” I say, kissing her temple. “Just needed a fresh coat.”
She snorts, rolling her eyes. “Cornball.”
“You love a cornball. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
She laughs, bright and unguarded, and the sound fills the whole room, echoes down into the floorboards. It’s perfect.