31. Imogen #2
He does, with no warning at all, one long flat drag of his tongue from where I’m soaked all the way up to my clit, and my hips come right off the bed.
He pins them down with a forearm across my stomach and does it again, slower, learning what makes me gasp and what makes me grab a fistful of his hair.
He works his tongue into me, then drags up to circle my clit, around and around until I’m shaking, and when he finally closes his lips over it and sucks, every clever thing I’ve ever known leaves my head at once.
“Ashton.” It cracks right down the middle.
He hums against me, the vibration of it rolling through me, and pushes two fingers in slow, curling them up to find the spot that makes my whole body jerk, his mouth never once leaving my clit.
He sets a rhythm with both, fingers stroking deep, tongue working me right where I need it, and I can hear how wet I am, how easy his fingers slide, the filthy sound of it filling the quiet between my own ragged breaths.
“You taste like you missed me too,” he says against my thigh, and then his mouth’s back on me before I can tell him to shut up, and I lose the thread of every word I own.
“Ashton.” It breaks in the middle.
“You’re soaked. I can feel you squeezing my fingers already. Don’t hold it, let me have it.”
I don’t hold it back. He works me right to the brink, my thighs shaking around his head, my fists clenched in his hair, the orgasm a breath away.
Then he eases off, slows the drag of his tongue to nothing, and leaves me hanging there gasping and clenching around his fingers, because he said slow and the man meant it.
“You’re the worst,” I tell the ceiling, my hips chasing his mouth.
“You’ll thank me.” He kisses the inside of my thigh and starts climbing his way back up, but this time I plant a hand on his chest and push him over onto his back instead, because two can play the slow game.
“My turn,” I tell him, and watch his eyes go dark.
I drag his jeans down and off, his cock springing free, thick and hard and already slick at the tip. I wrap my hand around the base of him and stroke once, root to head, just to watch his stomach go tight and his jaw clench. Then I lower my head and take him into my mouth.
He makes a low and wrecked sound that I’ve never gotten out of him, his hand flying to my hair, not pushing, just holding on.
I take him slow, working my tongue along the underside of him on every drag, tasting the salt at the tip, taking him deeper each time until he bumps the back of my throat and his hips jerk up off the bed.
“Fuck, Imogen.” His grip tightens in my hair. “Look at you.”
I hollow my cheeks and suck, my hand working what my mouth can’t reach, and he’s coming apart under me, his breath shot, his thighs trembling, that whole boardroom-and-ice composure of his gone to nothing.
I take him to the edge the same way he took me, until he’s straining and swearing, and then I pull off slow with a filthy sound and grin up at him.
“You said slow,” I remind him. “I’m just being thorough.”
“You’re going to be the death of me.” He hauls me up his body by the arms, flips me onto my back in one move, and settles his weight over me, his cock dragging through how wet I still am. “My turn again.”
I get a hand in his hair and pull him down to me, done waiting. He drops his forehead to mine, lines himself up, and just before he pushes in he says it into my neck.
“I love you.”
It takes the breath out of me worse than anything his mouth just did.
Then he pushes in, slow, feeding it to me inch by inch, and the stretch of him pulls a gasp out of my chest and my nails into his back.
He doesn’t rush a second of it. He sinks into me inch by inch, watching my face the whole way down, reading every flicker of it, easing back whenever I catch my breath and pressing deeper when I don’t, until he’s fully seated and we’re both shaking with it, his forehead dropped to mine, his cock buried deep and pulsing against every nerve I have.
“Okay?” he asks, and his voice is wrecked, and his hand comes up to push the hair off my face like that matters more right now than moving.
“More than okay.” I turn my face into his palm. “Move. Before I start being clever again.”
He moves. Long deep strokes that drag all the way through me, slow and complete, pulling nearly all the way out before he sinks back in so I feel every inch of the slide, the thick stretch of him claiming me by degrees.
His chest drags over my nipples on every return, his mouth at my jaw, my throat, my lips, swallowing each sound before I can finish making it.
Every other time we did this it was a fight, a race, both of us trying to win something.
This isn’t that. This is him worshipping me and me handing all of it right back, my hands buried in his hair, my heels hooked behind his thighs, hauling him deeper on every stroke like I can’t get him close enough.
“You feel so fucking good,” he gets out against my mouth, his rhythm faltering for a second. “I’m not going to last, not slow like this. Not watching your face. Not hearing you say it.”
“Then don’t.” I drag my nails down his back, lift my hips up to meet the next thrust. “I’ve got you. I want to feel you fall apart. All of it, give it to me.”
He shifts, the only change he makes the whole time, sliding a hand under the small of my back to tilt me up into him, and the new angle drives his cock against the spot that whites out my vision on every drag.
I gasp his name into his mouth. He gives me mine right back, broken in half, and now we’re climbing it together, his hips working deeper, his breath shattering against my lips, the heat winding tighter and lower and bigger than I can hold.
“Look at me.” His forehead presses to mine, his eyes finding mine and refusing to let go. “Stay with me. I want to watch you when you go. I want to see all of you.”
I open my eyes and hold his, and that’s what tips me over, his dark eyes locked on mine with nothing hidden behind them for once, his cock dragging deep, the wave cresting low and huge and unstoppable.
I feel him swell inside me, feel myself clamp down tight around him, and we go over the edge in the same breath, the same heartbeat, one long shared crash that takes the whole bed with it.
“I love you,” I gasp, coming apart around his cock, the words torn out of me before I can think to hold them.
“I love you,” he says into my hair, spilling into me, his hips driving twice more, wringing the last of it out of both of us, then holding me flush against him like the half inch of space between our bodies is more than he can stand to allow.
After, neither of us moves. He stays buried in me, his weight a warm anchor, his heart slamming under my palm.
“I’m sure,” I tell him again, into his chest.
“I heard you in the kitchen.” His hand moves through my hair, root to ends and back. “But I’m going to need you to keep saying it anyway.”