Chapter 19
SWEAT
MOLLY
Idid not know my pussy could sweat.
But here I am, planted on my kitchen table with Grey hovering over me, contemplating the fact that yes, in fact, pussies can sweat.
No exertion required, just a super hot guy fingering a peach in your kitchen.
I swear to god when he sucked the juice off his thumb while holding hard eye contact with me, I almost started barking like a dog.
And now he's gonna do that. To me.
Sweaty, drenched, achy, needy, meowing pussy.
This is what I've been reduced to. I've got it so bad, I rubbed one out on his actual penis in his actual lap on my actual couch with all of my clothes on minutes ago.
And here I am again as if I haven't had an orgasm in a thousand years.
The swing of emotions is so intense, I'm dizzy.
First, from being so horned up, you could not have pried me off of him with a crowbar.
Then to being more embarrassed than I've ever been in my life.
Then, he made me feel so hot about it. And then he fucked a peach with his hand.
Thank god he's about to touch me because I don't know how much more of this I can take.
I realize there are a lot of bases between dry humping and penetration, but if pressed, I would frog hop over all of them and head straight for home.
Honestly, you wouldn't even have to press.
A gentle breeze could throw me into his lap, vagina first.
I'm flushed all over, panting already, and I haven't even taken my shorts off. My head tilts so I can look at him. God, he's so tall. Broad. Strong. A wall of muscle and bearded jaw and those pale eyes staring at me with such intensity, the air between us crackles.
I don't realize my thighs have spread until the motion catches his attention. His gaze drops, sharpens, darkens. My stomach drops with it.
"You gonna put me in or what, coach?" I breathe.
One final time, he pauses. I watch him think, weigh it out, careful and cautious as always. Even when his pupils are blown and there's a tent in his sweats that could house a family of four. And then, he smirks.
"Batter up, babygirl."
A flash of heat tingles through my chest. Babygirl. That's new.
I like it.
He steps closer, cups my face with a rough palm. "We're gonna take this slow. And if you want to stop--"
"Rain check. I know."
His thumb strokes my cheekbone. "Good girl."
This time, the heat doesn't just tingle, it slicks my thighs. His eyes crinkle at whatever he sees in my face.
"You nervous?"
"Yes."
"Good nervous or bad nervous?"
I swallow hard. "Good. Definitely good."
He steps closer, his hands gripping my thighs to spread them wider, settling his hips between them.
The sight of him like this, standing between my legs, hands possessive on my thighs, makes my breath catch.
His hands slide up my legs, rough calluses catching on my skin.
Warm. Big enough to span the width of my thigh.
They stop at my hips, thumbs rubbing in small circles into the divots there, and I'm already trembling.
And then he leans in and kisses me.
We've done this plenty by now. I know the shape of his lips, the command in them.
The slide of his tongue, seeking, searching, claiming.
But this time, something's different. There's weight to it, promise.
I sigh into his mouth, sink into the kiss as his hand slides up my back, under my tee.
Skin on skin, his palm hot and rough against my spine, pressing me forward.
When his other hand slips into my hair, he tilts my head back, angling me for better access.
And I open myself up--mouth and thighs and lungs and heart--hands clutching at his shoulders.
They slide down, exploring. The solid planes of his chest, the hard slabs of his pecs. I can feel his heart hammering beneath my palm, racing as fast as mine. Faster, maybe.
I want him closer. Need him closer. And he must be able to read my mind, because his arm tightens around my back, pulling me forward. My ass slides to the very edge of the table, and suddenly I can feel all of him. His warmth. His strength. The hard, thick length of him pressed against my thigh.
He wants me too.
The thought fills me with something hot and bright. Pride, maybe. Power. He wants me. Grey--gorgeous, grumpy, perfect Grey--wants me.
I pull away just enough to look up at him. His eyes are shadowed, his pupils wide, lips wet and flushed. And then the corner of his lips rises with that devastating smirk.
"Remember what I said about the peach?" His voice is rough, his hand trailing down my spine lazily, back up, fingers tracing.
My stomach flips. "Yes," I whisper.
"Tell me."
Is he serious? I search his face. The smirk is still there, but his eyes are intent. He is. He actually wants me to recite a lesson with his hand on my naked back and his cock pressed against my thigh.
I'm about to vibrate out of my skin.
My brain is mush. "Um…you said…you have to be careful with a peach."
"Mm-hmm. What else?"
Up and down his hand slides, soothing and maddening and distracting. I want to scream.
I fumble around in my brain for anything peach related. Get distracted by the memory of his lips wet with peach juice, the way his tongue swept over his thumb. I shake my head to clear it. "Rhythm? Finding the right pace"
"Good girl. What else?"
I stifle a moan. I'm going to die. He's going to kill me with good girls and clever fingers, and they'll find me dead on my kitchen table before he even touches me.
"Um…" I fumble through my brain for information. “It’s…it's a climb, not a race."
"That's right." He thumbs my bottom lip, watching the motion. "And the sweetest part?"
"Is worth the wait."
Thank god he kisses me, because I cannot answer more questions. It's slow and deep, heavy with intent. His tongue slides against mine, and I taste the faint sweetness of peach still lingering. And when he pulls back, his eyes are serious. Dark. Hungry.
"I'm gonna touch you now, Molly."
I nod stupidly. Maybe a little bit frantically. Definitely desperately.
"And I'm gonna tell you what I'm doing."
"Okay."
"And you're gonna tell me what feels good. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Use your words, baby. If something doesn't feel right, you say so."
The baby makes me clench. Actually clench, with muscles I didn't know I could control contracting around nothing.
"I promise."
"Good."
His hand slides from my back to my stomach. Rests there, warm and heavy against my skin. The heat of his palm is like a brand.
"It's going to be more intense than you expect," he says quietly, eyes locked on mine. "Because it's not you doing it. You won't know what's coming next."
I nod. I don't think I can speak. My throat is clamped shut, my mouth dry.
His hand slides up under my shirt. Over my ribs.
And then his strong, hot hand cups my breast. Flesh against flesh, every nerve firing, the heat of his skin shocking. I gasp, the sound punched out of me. Instinctively, my legs hook on the back of his thighs, trying to pull him closer, anchor myself to something solid.
"Breathe, peaches."
My lungs are locked, frozen. But I force air in, force it out. And then his thumb brushes my nipple, already tight and aching, and I moan. There's no stopping it.
He does it again. Circles slowly, deliberately. He already knows what this does to me. But now? Skin to skin? When he rolls the tip between his thumb and forefinger, pinching gently, a bolt of electricity zings directly from my nipple to my clit.
I whimper, clutching at him, reaching for his lips with mine, needy. He kisses me, swallows the sound, and I feel his smile against my mouth.
His hand starts to move down.
Over my ribs. My stomach. My breath comes faster with every inch of skin he claims. I'm shaking like I'm cold, but I am on fire.
"Easy," he soothes, leaning over me, one hand gripping my hip, the other reaching to cup the back of my neck. His thumb strokes my pulse point. "It's not a race, remember?"
I nod. Try to breathe. Fail spectacularly.
His hand at my hip strokes down my thigh, up again to cup my sex firmly over my shorts, but they're so short, he's touching my panties, my flesh. A squeeze. I gasp. A stroke. I moan. His index and pinky finger stroke either side of my panties, but his middle finger dips into the hollow between.
"Grey--" I moan, a plea to accompany my bucking hips.
"Patience."
He's smirking, that bastard. Enjoying this. Making me wait. Building it like he said with the peach. The anticipation is going to end me. If I die right here untouched, I will haunt him straight to hell.
But then his fingers slip into the leg of my shorts, pushing the fabric aside, the cool air hitting me for only a second before his fingertips brush my slick center, feather light, Barely there.
I feel it everywhere. In my toes. In my teeth. My body jerks like I've been electrocuted.
"Oh--"
"I've got you." Which is a good thing--I'm pushing into his hand cupped at the back of my neck, holding me steady. "Lean back for me, baby. Let me see you."
I don't understand at first--my brain is offline, but my body obeys. I ease back onto my elbows and he watches me, fingertips still playing in the slick heat of my pussy, his gaze hungry. The position leaves me vulnerable, exposed. My legs spread around his hips, chest heaving.
Instinctively, my thighs try to close.
His hands tight, holding them open. "No," he murmurs. "Let me see you."
Heat floods my face. No one has ever seen me like this. No one's ever looked at me like he's looking at me right now--like I'm something precious. Something he wants to devour.
"You're beautiful," he says, thumbs stroking the inside of my thighs.
And then he touches me again.