Chapter 11 #2
My hand moved beneath the sheet before I fully decided to let it.
Just to my stomach at first.
Just enough to feel the warmth gathering there.
“You woke up moaning,” he said, voice lower now. “Didn’t even open your eyes right away. Just made that little sound and arched into my mouth.”
“I did not.”
“You did. Then you opened your eyes and looked down at me like you were shocked I had your nipple in my mouth.”
“I was shocked.”
“You fed it to me anyway.”
Shit.
I sure did.
His mouth had felt amazing.
Warm and wet, his tongue flicking over my nipple until bright little sparks of pleasure started gathering beneath my skin.
Then his lips closed around me, full and soft and greedy, pulling me deeper into the sensation until sleep loosened its hold and want took over.
I remembered opening my eyes slowly, confused for half a second, then seeing Dre’s head at my breast, one big hand spread over my waist, his body warm beside mine like waking me up with his mouth was the most natural thing in the world.
And God help me, it had felt natural.
I hadn’t told him to stop.
I had reached for him.
My fingers had gone straight to his close-cut hair, holding him there while my back arched off the mattress.
I remembered feeding him more of me, first the breast already wet from his mouth, then the other one because my whole body had woken up selfish and aching.
He’d groaned like I was giving him something precious, and that sound had gone straight between my thighs.
My fingers slid lower beneath the sheet now.
“You remember that?” I whispered.
“I remember your nipples getting wet from my mouth,” he said. “Remember how sensitive they were. How you started moving under the sheet before I even touched your pussy.”
I stopped pretending.
My fingers slipped between my thighs, past the neat little thatch of hair above my pussy, lower where I kept myself waxed smooth because I liked how sensitive it made everything.
My manicure brushed over skin already swollen with wanting.
Dewy slickness gathered against my fingertips, warm and messy and embarrassing only because Dre wasn’t touching me and still had me this wet.
Of course I was wet.
This was what his voice did when it found the parts of me memory had not protected.
“That was one of my favorite mornings,” he said.
“Because of my breasts?”
“Because you woke up soft.”
My fingers stilled.
“Soft?”
“Yeah. No thinking yet. No arguing. No acting like you had something to prove before your feet hit the floor. You just woke up wanting me.”
My throat tightened.
“And I wanted you and your perfect pink pussy before I was even all the way awake.”
I touched my clit and had to close my mouth around the first small sound.
The ring there caught beneath my fingertip, a tiny stroke of pressure that made my hips shift under the sheet.
I had gotten it years after Dre and I ended, one of those private choices I made for myself because I liked pleasure, liked my body, liked knowing certain secrets belonged to me before they belonged to anybody else.
But somehow, even that felt like something he would understand.
Dre went silent for half a second.
Then his voice deepened.
“You touching yourself?”
My eyes closed tighter.
“No.”
“Liar.”
I should have denied it again.
I didn’t.
He didn’t tease me either. Not the way he could have. He only let his breathing settle into the line between us, quiet and present, like he understood that something in me needed room to want without being laughed at for it.
“Keep going,” he said.
My fingers moved in a slow circle, sliding over my clit, around the ring, then lower to gather more of the wetness he had talked out of me like he had every right.
My body was soft and open beneath my own hand, skin alive, breasts still aching from the sheet and the memory of his mouth.
I could feel myself everywhere. The tender pull in my nipples.
The wet heat between my thighs. The pulse at my clit every time his breathing changed through the phone.
“Dre.”
“I got you.”
Those three words nearly pulled the sound out of me by themselves.
“Remember what happened after that?” he asked.
I did.
Every reckless second.
“You put your hand under the sheet,” I whispered.
“Mnhmm.”
“And then you got very pleased with yourself.”
“I had reason.”
“You always thought you had reason.”
“Baby, you were soaking wet.”
My hips moved into my own touch.
The endearment had slipped out of him like no time had passed, and my body received it before my mind could decide whether it should. Baby. In that voice. In the morning. With his memory wrapped around both of us.
“I remember sliding my fingers through that pussy,” he said. “Slow at first, because you were still half asleep and sensitive everywhere. You kept your eyes closed, but your hips were moving. You remember?”
“Yes.”
The word barely made it out.
Because I did remember.
I remembered his fingers finding me beneath the sheet, big and warm, careful for about three seconds before he realized careful was not what my body wanted anymore.
I remembered being wet enough to make him curse under his breath.
Remembered how one hand stayed at my breast while the other played with me, how he kept his mouth on my nipple until I was panting and pushing my hips into his palm.
My fingers circled faster.
The ring at my clit made every stroke feel brighter at the center, pleasure catching there before spreading low and deep.
“You got wetter every time I sucked your nipples,” he said. “I’d pull one into my mouth, rub your clit, and your whole body would lift off that mattress.”
My breath broke.
“I remember the sound you made when I pushed two fingers inside you. How tight you got around them. How your thighs opened even before I asked.”
The sheet twisted in my other hand.
My fingers slipped lower, just enough to feel how soft and slick I was, how my pussy clenched around nothing when he said inside. I brought that wetness back to my clit and stroked myself harder, lips parted, body too awake now to pretend this was only memory.
“Then I got on my back,” he said, “and you climbed over me like you had a point to prove.”
I moaned softly.
“There it is,” he murmured, then caught himself. His next words came gentler. “That morning, you rode me like you knew exactly what I needed.”
My fingers moved with more pressure.
“I remember your feet planted on my thighs,” he said. “Your hands on my chest. Tank top pushed up, panties somewhere under the covers, my sheets twisted all around us. The bed kept hitting the wall, and neither one of us cared.”
“Oh God.”
“I had my hands on that ass, helping you take all of me. Slapped it once and you got so wet I almost lost my mind.”
A shaky breath left me.
“Dre.”
“I know.”
My body climbed higher, pulled along by his voice, by the memory, by the way he sounded like he was watching it happen instead of inventing anything.
He wasn’t rushing me. Wasn’t turning it into performance.
He was reminding me of myself in his hands, in his bed, on his dick, wanted and known and taken care of at the same time.
And I remembered the way I had taken him that morning.
Sleepy at first, then greedy. Rolling my hips over him while his hands spread over my ass and his eyes stayed on my face.
I remembered the feel of him inside me, the stretch, the fullness, the way my thighs burned because I refused to stop moving.
Dre beneath me, jaw tight, chest rising hard, trying to let me have my rhythm until I got too slick, too wild, too loud, and his control started slipping under his hands.
The memory folded into the present until my fingers felt like his.
“That was you,” he said quietly. “Always so damn good when you stopped fighting how bad you wanted it.”
My orgasm moved close enough to make my thighs tremble.
“Don’t stop,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
The word rolled through me.
“I want you to feel it, Mani.”
My fingers pressed harder, circling my swollen clit, the ring catching beneath my touch, my pussy wet enough that every stroke sounded faintly obscene under the quiet of the hotel room. I should have been embarrassed.
I wasn’t.
Not with him.
“That’s it,” he said, voice rough now. “Nice and soft. Just like that.”
I exploded with my eyes closed and my lips parted around a sound I barely let out.
Pleasure rolled through me slowly, deep and warm, my hips lifting into my hand while my nipples tightened hard beneath the sheet.
My whole body seemed to pulse at once, breasts, clit, pussy, skin, every part of me alive and answering the man on the other end of the phone.
Dre stayed quiet while it happened. No teasing. No victory lap. Just his breathing low and careful on the other end of the phone, keeping me company while I fell apart.
When it passed, I lay there staring at nothing, chest rising and falling beneath the sheet, my fingers still warm and slick between my thighs.
My face was hot. My body was loose. My pride had left the room somewhere around him remembering my tank top, and honestly, I didn’t expect it back soon.
But underneath the embarrassment was something softer, harder to laugh off.
Dre had not touched me, not really, and somehow I still felt handled by him.
Known by him. Taken care of in a way that made no sense and perfect sense at the same time.
He had talked me back into a memory, followed my body into the present, and stayed with me while pleasure moved through me like he understood what happened afterward too.
That was the part that caught in my throat.
The care.
“You okay?” he asked.
My eyes closed because that almost made them sting. No joke. No smug little comment about what he had done to me. Just the question.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
A breath moved through the phone. “Good.”
I swallowed and pulled the sheet higher, not because I was cold but because I suddenly felt tender in a way nakedness had nothing to do with.