Chapter 19 #2
He explores me slowly, just fingertips tracing, learning. Sliding through the slick heat of me, and oh god--I'm dripping. When did that happen? I pant and mewl and make sounds I've never made before, hanging onto his forearm between my legs like it's a lifeline. Like I'll fly apart if I let go.
"Jesus, Molly--you're so wet."
I should be embarrassed, but the way he says it, hot and hungry, only makes me feel hot and hungry. I tilt my hips, trying to give him more access, trying to get more pressure.
He groans, and the sound does something to me, twists me tighter. Winds the coil in my belly another rotation. "You're perfect," he says, sliding his finger through my wetness again, gathering it, slicking his fingers. "So fucking perfect."
My body isn't my own. My hips jerking and shift, seeking, chasing his touch.
"Easy, baby," he murmurs, leaning over me, one Hand still working between my thighs, the other sliding up to cup my neck. "Let me show you something."
He slides his finger up to the top, to my clit. Circles slow.
I buck, nearly coming off the table. My elbow slips, and I would have fallen if he wasn't leaned over me, his hand at my neck anchoring me. My other hand fists his shirt, knuckles white, dragging him closer.
"There," he says, his voice rough. "That's what I was circling on the peach. But you knew that, didn't you."
"Oh, god--Grey--Jesus--"
He circles again, slow and deliberate, and I see stars.
"When you touch yourself, you go right here, don't you?"
I whimper, hoping he doesn't expect an answer.
"Straight to the finish line." Another circle, and my hips jerk. "But there's so much more to explore first."
Down his finger goes, splitting my flesh again, gliding through my wetness.
"You're soft here," he says, almost conversational, like he's not destroying me. Like I'm not actually dying. His fingers trailing back up to circle my clit again. "Sensitive here."
Down again. This time, his finger dips just barely inside, just the tip, just a tease. I paw at him like an animal, one hand fisting his shirt to drag him closer.
I can hear a smile in his voice when he says, "Not yet."
I could kill him.
Up goes his finger, this time with more pressure. Firmer. Sliding with ease because I'm drenched.
"Feel how your body responds?" he murmurs. "How you get wetter the more I touch you?"
I haven't noticed, and he knows it. But he's right. I can hear it, the slick sound of his finger moving through my folds.
I should be embarrassed.
I am not.
"That's your body getting ready," he says, "making sure everything feels good." His fingertip is slow and steady and perfect. "Too much pressure?"
"No." It's almost a sob. "No it's good. Don't stop."
"What about this?" He changes the pattern, side to side, and I wriggle and writhe.
"Oh—oh, Jesus--yes--" I gasp frantically, practically begging. "Please, don't stop."
"Never. Just learning what you like." He reads every response like it's the gospel. Firm pressure, and I gasp, hips lifting. Lighter, teasing, and I whine like a puppy. He chuckles darkly. "That's what I thought."
Firmer pressure again, and I nearly sob with relief. His hand shifts from my neck to grip my hair, not hard enough to hurt, just to hold. To tilt my head back a little more, exposing my throat. His body curves over mine, and then his mouth is on my neck, kissing, sucking, biting gently.
It's too much and not enough, a rush of fire and heat and sensation.
His mouth on my throat, his finger on my clit, hand in my hair, my legs spread, his body covering mine.
I can smell him, soap and sweat and smokey heat.
I can hear him breathing, ragged and rough.
I can feel the heat of his body, the hard press of his cock.
I am surrounded by him. Consumed by him.
I can't control my body, can't control the sounds coming out of me, whimpers and moans and gasps and his name over and over.
"Fuck, that's pretty." His lips brush my jaw, my ear, his breath hot in my ear when he says, "You sound so pretty when I touch you."
I'm going to burst into flames, spontaneously combust right here on my kitchen table. My hand flies, desperate, and grabs his wrist, the one attached to the hand intent on destroying me.
"Grey--Grey, I--"
"I know baby. Not yet."
"But--"
"Trust me."
I do. Completely.
His finger slows and I nearly sob at the loss. But then he builds me back up, relentless, until he's found the perfect rhythm that possesses me.
"There's my girl," he says, satisfaction in his voice.
Something in my chest clenches at the words.
"Take what you want, Molly." His voice is strained in my ear. "Take what you need."
I lean into it, lean into him. The orgasm rises, racing toward his fingertips like a wildfire.
"Grey--" My voice breaks.
"I know. I can feel it." His finger maintains that perfect rhythm.
It coils in my belly, at the base of my spine, throbs between my legs where he owns me.
"I don't--I can't--"
"Yes, you can." His mouth is on my throat again, lips and teeth and tongue. "You're so close baby." His voice is gravelly and raw. "So fucking close." He sucks hard on my pulse point, bites gently. "Let go for me, Molly."
"I can't--" I don't know why I'm fighting it.
"I promise, you can."
"I'm scared--” I don't know where the words come from, but they're true. It's all too big, too much.
He slows, doesn't stop. Just eases. Gives me space to breathe.
"Look at me."
I force my eyes open. He's leaning all the way over me, braced on one arm, his face inches from mine. Pale eyes locked on me, boring into me, seeing me.
"I've got you," he says firmly. So certain. "You're safe. I promise."
And I know it's true. Grey won't let me fall. Won't let me break. He'll catch me.
I nod, sigh as I melt into him, into his touch. "Okay."
"Okay."
And then the coil tightens again, curling and twisting and winding tighter. His finger resumes that perfect rhythm, and this time I don't fight it.
"Let go," he whispers against my lips.
It hits me without warning, like a wave.
Crashes over me, pulls me under, drags me away.
My breath kicks out of me with a cry--his name, maybe, I can't tell.
Can't hear over the roaring in my ears. My body seizes, every muscle locking tight.
Pleasure radiates outward from his touch, pulsing, throbbing, racing through my veins like electricity.
I'm gasping into his shoulder, clutching him like a lifeline. Like he's the only solid thing in a world crumbling away from me.
"Easy," he soothes, one hand on my thigh, the other reaching to cup the back of my neck, his voice soft in my ear. "I've got you. I've got you."
Little aftershocks pulse through me, drawing the final jerks and gasps. My whole body is trembling, quaking. His finger barely moves now, just rests against me, feeling me pulse and flutter and clench.
"Holy shit," I eventually gasp.
He laughs softly, the sound rumbling through his chest and into me. He presses a kiss to my hair. "Yeah. Holy shit."
The world comes back to me slowly. The kitchen. The table beneath me, hard and unforgiving beneath my palm. Grey's arm around me, his hand still in my shorts.
He eases his hand out slowly, carefully. Then he's pulling me upright, gathering me into his chest, and I cling to him, boneless. He's kissing me loud and noisy and heavy and lovely, and I'm struck dumb by the weight of it all.
That just happened. I've never had an orgasm like that on my own.
Grey made me come like that on my kitchen table.
I have no idea how I'm supposed to ever eat a meal again here without bursting into flames.
The kiss ends, and he clutches me to his chest, one hand stroking my back, the other tangled in my hair.
"You okay?" he asks.
I nod against his shoulder. Words don't exist yet.
"Need some water?"
Another nod. But when he starts to pull away, I tighten my grip, fisting my hands in his shirt.
"In a minute," I mumble into his chest.
"Okay, peaches. In a minute."
We stay like that, just breathing. My heart is still racing, thundering against my ribs.
I can feel his too. That was the most intense thing that's ever happened to me.
Is it always like that? Or is it just because it's Grey?
The way he touched me, talked to me, held me. He made me feel safe enough to let go.
I pull back enough to look at him. His hair is mussed. Did I do that? I must have. His hands haven't left my body. His pupils are still blown, lips parted, and I realize he looks wrecked.
My cheeks flush, and I smile. "Hi."
He huffs a laugh. "Hi."
"That was…" I shake my head. "My brain can't word."
"You were perfect," he says, thumbing my cheek.
"I didn't do anything."
"You trusted me." His eyes are serious. Intense. "That's everything."
Oh.
Oh no.
My heart.
I have to break the moment before I give myself away. Before I say something stupid like Can I keep you or Please don't ever stop touching me.
"So," I start, aiming for casual, "Did I pass the lesson?"
He smiles, and it's the biggest, brightest thing I've ever seen in my life. "With flying colors."
"What's my grade?"
"A-plus-plus."
"Uh, I don't think that's a real grade, and I need this for my transcripts."
"Well, I'm the dean, so it is now."
I laugh, my face tipped up to the ceiling, high on the feeling.
It's then that I feel the hard length of him pressed against my thigh again. He's got to be dying, all these days of making out, his cock always hard when we do. But he hasn't asked for anything, just gives and gives and gives. I realize I'm looking down at his cock when he does.
"Grey--"
"Don't even think about it."
"But--"
"Rain check."
I frown. "That's not fair."
"Life's not fair, peaches."
He steps back, adjusts himself with a grimace. I watch his hand move over the bulge, his jaw clenching, and it fills me with a surge of pride and guilt. I did that to him. And he's just going to…what? Go to softball practice like that?"
He heads for the sink, turns on the water. Washes his hands, the same hands that were just in my shorts. The same fingers that just unraveled me and left me a pile of string on the ground. Something about it is unbearably intimate.
"Tonight was about you," he says, drying his hands on the dish towel.
"But--"
"No buts." He turns to face me, crosses his arms. Firm. Final. "This is what we agreed to. One step at a time."
My lips flatten. He's right. I know he's right. Doesn't mean I have to like it.
"Besides," he adds with something dark and promising in his eyes. "I'm gonna be thinking about this for days."
Heat floods my face. Floods everywhere. The way he's looking at me makes me clench all over again.
I watch him watch me. "Is it always like that?"
A heavy hesitation, then, quietly, "No." Something in his tone makes my chest tight.
I have questions, but before I can ask, he strides toward me, kissing the top of my head.
"Come on. We're gonna be late to practice. Go put some pants on."
Right. Practice. Softball. The real world. Things that exist outside of this kitchen and what happened on this table.
He starts to walk away, and I'm on my feet.
"Wait."
Grey stops and turns just in time to catch me when I launch myself at him, kissing him long and hard and thoroughly. I pour everything I can't say into it, and when I finally let him go, I'm smiling.
"Okay, now you can go."
He chuckles, smacking my ass on his way out. And I watch him go on wobbly knees, only just beginning to realize what I've gotten myself into.
And even at that, I don't have a fucking clue.