Chapter 18 – Dylan #2
“Grady.” His name is the sound of unrequited need.
Impatient and greedy.
My hands are in his hair. Fisting. Tugging. Keeping his head right where it is so his mouth can continue to tease me with the sweet torture of his tongue and teeth against my nipples.
Not only does he not stop, but his hands part my thighs, finding me wet and ready for him. My breath hitches as he slides his finger up and down my slit, his thumb rubbing over my clit, his fingers toying with my entrance so I buck my hips, begging for more.
He doesn’t give it to me. Instead, he leaves his fingers right there, just barely entering me so the heel of his hand can rub and press against my clit.
I squirm. I writhe. I groan. I beg. All I want is something of him in me.
Right. Now. The pressure is building, and I need that cock of his to fill me, to grate over those nerves and ignite the wildfire of bliss starting to brim beneath the surface.
“Grady.” I moan his name again, letting him know I need him. That my body is succumbing to his touch.
“Condom,” he murmurs against my chest as the weight of his body eases off me so he can reach in the drawer of his nightstand.
I can’t wait, so as he sits back on his knees to open the condom and roll it over the delicious girth of his shaft, I let my fingers travel their way between my thighs. I’m a mess of arousal, so my fingers slide easily into me before coming back out.
He groans as he watches me. Teeth biting into his bottom lip. Hand working ever so slowly over his jacketed dick. Eyelids heavy and drugged with desire.
Watching him watch me is erotic, and while I’m typically shy when it comes to my body, the way he’s looking at me pleasuring myself—the pads of my fingers on my clit, the way I slide between my lips to find more arousal before tripping back up to build my orgasm again—is empowering in a way I’ve never experienced before.
My breath grows shallow, and it becomes hard to keep my eyes open as the pleasure builds, one wave after another, and just when I’m about to come—back arching, legs tensing—Grady locks his hand over my wrist.
“Let me.”
Those are two of the sexiest words I’ve ever heard.
My eyes flash open to watch as Grady moves between my thighs.
He grabs the underside of my knees and pulls me closer.
His thick head teases my entrance. He pushes in just enough for me to feel the slow, sweet burn of my flesh giving way to his invasion before he pulls back out. Wicked, delicious torture.
“You like that?” he murmurs as he watches where he teases.
He does it a few more times, and just as I’m about to grab his hips myself to prevent him from pulling back out, he enters me fully in one dizzying thrust so he’s sheathed, root to tip.
We both moan from the onslaught of pleasure. From the restraint tested. From the frenzy of our bodies begging for more.
Our eyes meet. Our hands connect and fingers link. And then he moves again. Slowly at first, giving me time to adjust to him. When I have, I clench my muscles around him to tell him I’m good, and I love the way his eyes close partially from the sensation.
And then he picks up the pace.
He leans forward so our joined hands are pinned on either side of my head and adds to his pleasurable assault by kissing me again. His tongue moves in sync with his hips, and I writhe and buck, trying to draw out every ounce of bliss from our connection.
It’s one bruising thrust after another. Every nerve of mine thrums and pulses as he rubs and grinds against them, until all I can concentrate on is him and the climax bearing down on me without mercy.
My body is a confusing combination of pleasure building to pain, want bending to need, and desperation feeding gluttony.
Seconds turn to minutes. Each one that passes a badge of honor for holding out, but I know it won’t be for much longer. There’s too much sensory overload, and I welcome every single moment of it.
The sound of our bodies connecting. The slap of flesh against flesh with each drive.
The feel of him. The girth of his cock. The way my fingers spread to fit his between mine.
The taste of him. His kiss on my lips. The hunger in it laced with desire and edged with the beer he had in the kitchen.
The smell of him. Soap and shampoo and fabric softener. And sex.
The look of him. Visual porn in every way imaginable. Muscles rippling. Sweat misting. Body aware.
And then the surge comes—every part of my body attuned to him, every nerve touched, every erogenous zone satisfied.
I cry out when I come. At first, it’s a tidal wave of sensations—pushing me up, pulling me under, stealing my breath—then just when I’m about to drown in the pleasure of it all, another wave hits.
One after another until I’m floating in a sea of ecstasy.
My hips lift to meet his. My nipples become ultra-sensitive to the feel of his chest grazing them. The muscles pulse around his dick and milk his own orgasm out of him.
It’s my name on his lips now. It’s my hands he crushes as the haze engulfs him. It’s my body he uses until he’s spent and lying on top of me, breath labored and lips pressed against the underside of my jaw as our heartbeats struggle to calm.
Eventually, our fingers loosen from each other’s and the gravity of the moment settles over me.
“Well, that’s one way to avoid talking about your fight.”
“Look at it this way,” he murmurs, his lips moving against my skin and sending chills over me. “We just had make-up sex and we haven’t even had a proper fight yet.”
“Next time I’ll throw a plate at you first.”
“Good idea.” He chuckles.
Next time?
Next time.
If this is what make-up sex is like with Grady Malone, then I sure as hell can’t wait to see what regular sex is like.