31. The Great Button Massacre
THE GREAT BUTTON MASSACRE
Dean
Ihad one rule for the day, don’t touch her.
I’d broken it within the first thirty seconds of speaking to her, but only because falling on your knees in front of the woman you’re desperately in love with felt more pathetic.
I’d managed to keep my distance the entire day leading up to that, white-knuckling my way through the toasts, the first dance, the cake cutting—all of it—while she moved through my brother’s wedding like she hadn’t completely wrecked me.
Then she’d asked if we could talk later when she was done.
Later. As if I hadn’t already spent eight hours with a knot in my chest the size of a fist, as if I hadn’t already rehearsed every version of please don’t go I could think of. So no, later wasn’t going to work for me.
Which is how we ended up here, fully clothed, pressed against the inside of the guest cabin door, both of us shaking, her hands fisted in my shirt like she was afraid I might disappear.
We’d kissed before, plenty of times, but none of those had felt like this.
This felt less like a kiss and more like a pressure valve finally giving way.
Like the difference between holding your breath and drowning.
I lifted my hands and cupped her face, then moved and tangled them in her hair. She was holding the back of my neck, gripping it tightly.
Urgency roared in me.
I couldn’t get close enough to her.
I needed her more than I’d ever needed anything, and the knowledge was terrifying and electrifying in the same heartbeat. I needed to feel her skin against mine.
We didn’t so much take each other’s clothes off as we obliterated them.
Her fingers hooked into the belt loops of my slacks, yanking so hard my waistband bit into my hips.
My hands went for her blouse, fumbling the buttons in a way that would have embarrassed me if I wasn’t half-feral.
One popped, and skittered across the floor, but I didn’t give a damn.
I just needed to touch her, skin to skin, every barrier banished.
She was laughing, breathless, when I peeled her out of her shirt. “Dean, you’re going to rip it.”
“I’ll buy you another one,” I growled as another button popped, and dragged it off her shoulders.
She made quick work of unbuttoning my shirt.
She had zero patience, popping them down my chest as if the fabric itself were a barrier to breathing.
and then pushed it down my arms. Her hands skimmed my chest, her mouth already there before the cotton even cleared my arms. As she kissed my chest, I stepped out of my shoes, and my pants and boxer-briefs that were pooled around my feet.
The fragrance of her hair, the faint scent from the piney air outside, the heat radiating from her skin—it all crashed over me, overwhelming.
Her bra was crooked. I reached behind, unhooked it in a second, and let it drop to the ground.
The black pants she wore hugged her curves and I couldn’t get them and her underwear down fast enough.
I backed her against the cabin door and tugged her forward, her hands pressing the wood behind her for leverage.
She hooked one ankle around my calf, pulling us together so hard I could feel every line of her.
For a moment, we just clung tight, chests pressed so close I could feel her heartbeat hammering through both our skins.
We kissed like we’d invented kissing, like nothing else existed but our mouths and the heat between us.
She bit my lower lip, not enough to hurt but enough that it sent a tingle all the way down my spine.
I groaned, and her smile pressed against my cheek as I scooped her up, one arm under her knees, the other cradling her shoulders.
I walked her to the bed, stumbled a little. She laughed into my neck, breathless, and that sound made me want to tear the world apart just to keep her happy. I set her down gently, even though nothing about the way we touched was gentle.
She pulled me on top of her, legs instantly wrapping around my waist. I hit the mattress with a jolt, hands to either side of her head, and kissed her, deep and slow.
There was nothing in this moment but her and me. She pushed my shoulders back and rolled me to my side, then crawled up over me, eyes locked on mine.
She kissed my throat, my collarbone, then lower, over the scars and the muscles, tracing a path of fire down my abs to my erection, jutting from my body. She hesitated just long enough to look up at me, her hair falling around her face.
I reached for her hair, threading my fingers through it and holding on.
She licked the head, slow and precise, then took me in until I hit the back of her throat, and I almost lost it right then.
The world snapped down to the single point where her mouth met my body.
She stroked me with her hand, twisting just the way that made me see stars, and her tongue was relentless, greedy, perfect.
“Fuck, Felicity,” I gritted out. I was supposed to be the quiet one, the stoic one, but I had no defenses. She made a noise in her throat that vibrated all the way up my spine and into my skull. I didn’t want her to stop, not ever, but I needed her just as desperately. “I want to taste you.”
She shifted her body and swung her leg around so she was straddling my face.
She settled her knees on either side of my ears, and lowered herself until I could feel the heat of her on my mouth, the slick and sweet scent of her skin, the trembling in her thighs as I teased her open with my tongue.
I held her hips still, pulling her closer, and licked her slowly, then deep.
The bedsprings creaked as she adjusted, and suddenly her mouth was back on my cock again.
She covered my tip with her lips as she wrapped her fingers around my girth.
She practically swallowed me whole, taking me deep and fast, like she was trying to race me to the finish line, perfect and unrestrained.
I groaned against her, the sound muffled by the press of her thighs around my ears.
I flicked my tongue over her clit, then sucked it, and she jerked forward, the movement nearly making me lose it.
She tried to keep the rhythm steady, but every time I did something she liked, her hips bucked and her mouth stuttered on me.
It was perfect, a feedback loop of pleasure and more pleasure, her body at the mercy of mine and vice versa.
She tasted like salt and sweetness. When I pushed two fingers inside her, she gasped, and her whole body clenched around me.
I teased her, circling her clit with my tongue, curling my fingers just so, feeling her get tighter and wetter with every second.
I wanted to make her come so hard she forgot her own name.
I lost myself in the taste of her, the way she moaned around me, the way her hips bucked every time I focused on the spot that made her shudder and go tense all over.
We were both insatiable, both desperate to taste, to give, to overwhelm. Her lips were incredibly soft, but her mouth was so deliberate. She knew exactly what she was doing, and so did I.
I devoured her, licked and sucked, feeling her go tense and soft, tense and soft, over and over. She stroked me, took me deep, swirling her tongue, and I could barely hold myself together.
It had always been easy to lose myself in logistics and numbers, to find solace in the cold order of spreadsheets and bank codes. But her…she was pure carnal desire, and I craved it. She made me want to be messy, to lose control.
Every breath, every movement, was a conversation of hunger and need. Her hand tightened around my cock, her mouth relentless, and I was doing everything I could to hold on to that last nerve of control even as she did everything she could to test it.
She was close, I could tell by the way her breath caught, by the tremor in her thighs, by the way her mouth got sloppy on me.
I redoubled my efforts, sucking her clit hard, then slow, then hard again, as I curled my fingers inside of her, hitting just the right spot until she broke apart above me, her whole body shaking.
For a second, she seized up, stopped breathing, her hair falling across my stomach and chest. She came apart on my face, the orgasm crashing through her, a shuddering, wordless explosion.
I didn’t stop, I kept licking, kept sucking, chasing every aftershock until she moved her hips away from my mouth, too sensitive, shaking.
I rolled her beneath me and pinned her body to the mattress.
She was still trembling, her breathing ragged, face flushed and hair wild.
I braced my hands on either side of her head, lowering myself until our chests met, her heart beating so fast it thrummed against my ribs.
Her eyes were unfocused, pupils huge, and for a moment all we could do was stare at each other, lost in the shock of desire and the reality of what we’d finally, finally given ourselves permission to feel.
I hooked one hand behind her knee and spread her open, every muscle in my body taut and aching for her.
I nudged against her entrance and felt the heat and slickness, the sharp gasp she gave as I pushed inside.
Her inner walls stretched around me. She was so fucking tight, so ready, and she arched up to meet me, digging her nails into my back.
The sensation was almost too much, raw, wild, like nothing I’d ever experienced. I thrust slow, at first, then faster, losing control with every move. Her hands found my face, the back of my neck, the curve of my spine, and she held on like I was her anchor in a world that had suddenly gone liquid.
She buried her face in my neck and bit into my shoulder, not hard enough to hurt but enough to drag a groan from my throat. I felt her body clench around me, a desperate pull that only made me want her more.
We moved together, reckless and needy, sweat slicking our skin, her legs wrapped tight around my waist. Every time I drove into her, she met me with a grind of her hips, a gasp, a whispered curse that made my head spin.
Every emotion I’d buried, every fear, every craving, all of it poured out in the way I touched her, the way I held her, the way I never wanted to let her go.