27. Hard Truths and Hard Countertops #3
Wanting more of him, I worked as fast as I could to unbutton his shirt, then peel it off his body.
When he was down to an undershirt, I grabbed at the material and attempted to tug it over his head.
He exhaled through his nose in what sounded like frustration as he broke the contact of our mouths and reached behind his back, peeling off the material in one swift movement, leaving his chest bare.
While he did that, I fumbled with his pants, quickly unbuttoning and unzipping them.
Once I had, I slid my hand into the waistband of his boxer-briefs and wrapped my fingers around his straining cock.
I massaged his shaft as he pushed the material of my skirt up my thighs and his hand slid between my legs.
He kissed me with a hunger that was both familiar and foreign—the kind of hunger that made me forget all the time and pain and distance, as if he could inhale those years straight from my mouth.
His tongue tangled with mine and I met him stroke for stroke, greedy, desperate.
I fisted his hair, tugging him closer, and when his fingers began to move over my feminine folds, the jolt of sensation nearly separated me from my own body.
He pressed the heel of his palm against my sex, slow and deliberate, and I moaned, the sound muffled by his lips.
I stroked him, felt him thick and straining, and tugged the elastic down over his hips so I could have better access.
He gasped, biting off the noise as if he was on the edge of losing control.
The thought that Dawson needed to keep it together made me want to unravel him all the more.
His dick jerked in my hand as I closed my fingers around him, stroking with purpose. He shuddered, mouth pressed to the hinge of my jaw, stubble scraping my skin in a way that made me want to crawl inside of him.
He slid two fingers under the hem of my panties, his knuckles rough and warm, and circled me until my thighs trembled.
I tried to arch away from the pressure, but he just followed me, pinning me to the counter with his body so I had nowhere to go.
He nipped my throat, then my collarbone, then let his tongue trail down to the edge of my bra.
With one hand, he unhooked the clasp behind my back and pulled the straps down my arms, exposing my breasts to the cool kitchen air and his stare.
“Fuck, Sadie,” he whispered, voice ragged as he cupped my breast, thumb flicking over the nipple until it pebbled. He sucked it into his mouth, biting just shy of pain, and I gasped, the sound echoing in the cavernous quiet of the kitchen.
I squeezed him harder, stroking faster, and he groaned.
The sound sent a spark of heat through me, straight to where his fingers were working me open, slick and insistent.
He teased my entrance, not quite entering me before pulling back to rub slow, relentless circles over my clit.
The sensation was so sharp, so overwhelming, that I lost the rhythm of my hand for a moment, but then he pinched my nipple again, and I was back in the moment, matching his pace with my own.
His lips left a wet trail across my chest, down my ribs, and then he knelt so fast the world tilted. He pulled my underwear down my legs, spread my knees wide, hands braced on the insides of my thighs, and looked up at me with that old, smug, unbreakable confidence.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he commanded, and then he buried his mouth on me.
The first stroke of his tongue made my whole body seize.
He’d always known exactly how to eat me, how to alternate pressure and speed until I couldn’t see straight, but this was somehow worse, better, more.
He licked me like he was starved, like nothing else in the world mattered but my taste and the way my hips bucked helplessly into his face.
His fingers circled my opening and then slipped inside, curling in a way that made me see stars behind my eyelids.
I braced myself on the marble countertop, grasping at the edge until my knuckles went bloodless.
He added another finger, and I clenched around him, the pressure so much, too much, and then suddenly exactly right.
He flicked his tongue against my clit, fast and merciless, and I lost my grip, both on the counter and on reality.
My orgasm ripped through me, a body-wrecking burst that left me shaking, mouth open, no sound coming out but raw, primal gasps.
I came so hard I almost blacked out, and he didn’t stop, didn’t slow, just coaxed every last aftershock from me with his mouth and hands until tears leaked from the corners of my eyes.
When I could breathe again, I looked down and saw Dawson staring up at me, his chin slick, his eyes gone dark with satisfaction. He pressed one last linger of his tongue to my oversensitive skin, then rose to his full height, looming over me with his cock still hard and glistening in his fist.
He kissed me once, deep and slow, so that I could taste myself on his tongue.
The intimacy of it, the lack of shame, made my heart slam against my ribs.
His other hand was still between my legs, two fingers hooked inside me, and he moved them with slow, obscene precision.
I whimpered into the kiss, restless and desperate for more of him, grabbing at his hips, wanting to feel him inside me, wanting to be filled, wrecked, unmade.