Chapter 17 #4
“Yes.” She’d need both hands. Her panties slithered to the floor with a ripple of cool air across her over-sensitive skin.
She stepped between his knees. She leaned close, canting her hips for balance, working by touch: over his bold shoulders, across the roughness of his elbows, along the ink and scarring and weathering on his forearms, to his wrists: readied behind him.
The taut peaks of her breasts skimmed his chest while she slipped the rope over his hands, while she inched the nylon slack into contact with his own skin, holding him steady—stay with me—and ready, the heat of their bodies brightening the dark.
His breath trembled and mingled with hers. “Isabel. . .”
“Yes,” she told them both.
She bent back, her palms ghosting up his spine, her nails rasping, dredging a harsh and lovely exhale from him, until her hands were braced on his shoulders, until her knees found purchase on the couch while straddling his thighs, until the leverage of her own weight was power.
She held his gaze a second time, anticipation thrumming through her, her skin on fire now, fearless.
“P-please—”
Latex unrolled beneath his hitching breath. She brushed against him, her core fluttering, working the tilt of her hips to match his.
“A-a-ah. . .”
The whimper might have been either of theirs. Gravity and desire joined them with a soft, wet whisper, her body parting around his cock—shallow at first, but then, strengthening her grip on his shoulders to adjust their angle: sinking suddenly, desperately, gorgeously deeper.
“C-Christ!”
Again, her palms braced. Again, her thighs rose.
Again, she released herself, her legs nestling flush to his.
Closer, closer, even deeper, breathless, stealing the sweetness of his groans, which slipped from his tongue to hers, to the nub of wanting between her thighs.
Sparking. She ground down on him, clenched around the pulse of him, chased that spark, hunted its friction with a swiveling grind of her hips.
Oh, it was good—
Another breath, another thrust, his body working in tandem with hers, bearing her pressure, matching it, his wrists straining at their knots while refusing to slip free when he could, she knew he could—then another bite of his lip and a gasp into his mouth—
But it—
A harder brace of her hands, a higher rise and a farther fall, moisture slicking their skin, tears stinging under her eyelids—
It—
It was so, so good—
And with Wes Monaghan, good wasn’t enough.
With him, she needed everything.
“Wes—”
“I’m here—”
He was: surrendering himself to her demands, his mouth open and warm, sucking along her neck, her shoulders, her earlobes, his hips quaking beneath her and his cock sheathed inside her, but restraining himself from his release until she’d ridden the surging, unruly, glorious wave of hers.
With him, she could have everything.
So she would.
With one more lush, hungry thrust, her hands fell from his shoulders. The rope loosened on his arms.
“Ah!” Immediately, Wes stilled. Muscle flexed and jumped under Isabel’s palms. “U-uh. . . Buttercup?”
Nodding, she teased his wrists out from their binding. She intertwined her fingers with his, and brought their laced hands up over her crashing, hopeful heart. She drew back a single centimeter to catch his dark, gleaming, gold-brimming gaze as she said, “I want you to touch me now.”
“Y-yes?” His thumb twitched at the base of her throat.
“Yes. Please.”
He echoed her nod, just once.
Then. . . then his thumb wasn’t twitching, but stroking.
Reverently, he explored the curved arch of her collarbones; the roughness from his feather-light brushes of callused skin was tantalizing.
Anticipation arched through her while his hips circled slowly.
She quivered when his lips followed. She moaned as his hand slipped lower, his tongue sweeping down the curve of her neck.
“Y-yes—”
His fingers trailed over her ribs. He shadowed each jut and hollow of her body, caressing.
His palm settled between her shoulder blades to anchor her through her trembling delight while his mouth continued its humming suction at her throat.
Coaxing her to bend back into his hold, he deepened the angle of their bodies even farther with a rock of his hips that left them both gasping, his name lifting off her lips with mindless need, his clever tongue skimming now along the pebbled tip of her breast, teeth grazing skin through his own gravelly moan as her thighs tightened for leverage.
“Wes—”
His thumb parted the curls between her thighs.
Her next cry was wordless. Blinding, ineffable shocks of pleasure spiraled down her spine, into her toes. Her muscles torqued tight to the edge of exquisite pain.
Tight around him.
“Fuck, Isabel—” Wes’s slow, lovely grinding jolted.
Cursing, he lurched up from the couch with her legs locked around his waist. He staggered to the bedroom, shouldering through the door, collapsing toward the mattress.
But somehow, even as they fell, his arms were around her, cradling her, his mouth finding hers once more in the moonlight and dancing shadows, his hips circling again, his thumb rasping.
She sighed, whined, bowed up to draw him closer still.
Because she wanted to.
Because she could.
He was here, and so was she. No hallucinations. No pain, no fear, no shame. Just this moment, whispering joy as she shattered into sea foam around him.
Just him.
Just us.
And as he followed her with a groan and a cry through the turbulent break of her pleasure, toward the depths of his own release, she smiled into his mouth and the dark.
Mine.