Chapter 11 #2
His mouth leaves mine, kisses my throat.
And oh, oh god, the ramping of my pulse is immediate, turning it into a frenzied tattoo in my veins.
I tip my head back, offering myself for his mouth.
He accepts my offer, kissing his way down to my chest. I cling to his shoulders and lean back, arch to press my aching breasts out for him.
He growls again, and his mouth covers my breast—like last night, when he suckles on my nipple, my sex pulses madly, spasming as he flattens my nipple in his mouth, lets it go, flicks it with his tongue. I pant, gasp, arch, clutch.
His thumbs work inward, closer, closer. He kisses around my nipple, the other. Licks. Sucks. Tongue-flicks.
"Noah," I breathe.
"Okay?" he murmurs the question against my breast.
I nod. "Okay."
I'm shaking all over in anticipation. My core is hot and throbbing and wet.
Surely he can smell my arousal. It's leaking out of me.
Part of me is mortified at the thought and wants me to close my legs, but I can't—I squeeze his hips with my knees, whimpering as his mouth drifts up from my breasts to my lips, and kisses me delicately, almost chaste, a touch of his lips to mine.
Yet, at that same moment, the rough pad of his big thumb scrapes over the seam of my sex, eliciting a sharp cry from me.
I shudder, hunching forward at the contact.
As I hunch forward, my hips tip forward as well, pushing into his ghostly soft touch.
I cling to his neck, press my mouth to his temple, and shudder. "Noah."
"So sensitive, Morgan." Another downward swipe of one thumb over my sex; another wracking shudder. "When was the last time you came?"
“Last—last night," I gasp. "Wait—the night before, I mean."
"You touch yourself?"
I nod against the side of his face. “Yes."
"Did you think about me when you touched yourself?"
I nod again.
"Can you say it, honey?" he pulls back, one hand cradling my cheek; his thumb caresses the lips of my sex in a slow downward slide, never quite making contact with my clit, never quite delving inside me. "Let me hear your voice. Tell me what you thought about. Can you do that for me, Morgan?"
His voice is soothing, yet arousing. Strong and confident, yet gentle and kind. He's looking at me, watching me.
I force my eyes to hold his even though I want to close them, to hide from his scrutiny—not scrutiny: desire. Approval.
“This,” I breathe. "You touching me. Kissing me." I swallow hard. "Making me come."
"Is that all?"
I shake my head. "No."
His thumb brushes my clit, and I jerk. "Then what else?"
I press my lips to his shoulder. Rest my forehead there.
"Touching you. Opening your jeans. Feeling you.
Making you come." I shudder, shake, gasp, whimper again as he passes his thumb over my clit so softly it barely counts as contact.
"Being naked with you. Making love with you. " I swallow—or try to. “Other things."
“Like what, Morgan?"
Cheeks burning, I shake my head. "I'm not brave enough to say it.”
"Can I guess?"
I nod.
"My mouth." He now, finally, caresses my clit with his thumb, making me jump, hips bucking. “Here."
"Yes!" I gasp.
"Anything else?”
I nod. “Yes."
"What?"
I can't form thoughts for a moment—I’m too overcome by the searing lightning that blasts through me at the delicate brush of his touch to my clit.
I shift backward an inch or so. Slide my fingers along the waist of his jeans from the outside in, halting at the button.
Flip it open. Hesitate, and then tug down the zipper.
"This," I whisper. "I thought about making you come.
" I can't believe my own ears when the truth emerges, bold as you please, from nerves-numb lips. "With my mouth."
"Ah fuck, Morgan. Jesus." He sounds…shocked faint. stunned. “I—I’d never ask—"
"You wouldn't have to ask," I interrupt. “I want to.”
He growls. "God, Morgan."
I gasp breathlessly when he circles my clit again, this time pressing a little more firmly. I quake at his touch, and my hips move, grinding subtly into his touch. "Noah, please."
"What, sweetheart? Anything."
I touch my forehead to his and open my eyes, gazing down, watching his thumb move under the scarlet lace. "More." It's all I can manage.
"More?" A tender, slow kiss to my mouth.
He hooks a finger in the gusset and pulls the fabric to the side, baring my sex. I try to squirm at the exposure, but there's nowhere to go, no movement that can alleviate the ache or assuage my panicked nerves.
His mouth touches mine, open but not kissing, just touching. "How about…this?"
A fingertip touches my clit and I jerk, gasp. But he's not done. He trails that fingertip over my seam, down, down, a fraction of an inch at a time. In, then. Parting my sex, intruding.
Oh…
Oh god.
My mouth drops open and my lips tremble at the touch, the intrusion, the thick presence of his finger inside me. "Ohhhhh, god. Oh god…Noah."
“Okay?"
I nod. “Yeah. Yes. I…”
"What, honey?"
"Keep going. Please."
Slowly, so carefully, he slides his finger inside me.
Pulls it out partway, slides back in. Again.
I gasp, tip my hips toward him, begging silently for more.
I forgot what it feels like to be touched like this.
My brain is scrambled and my emotions are a hurricane and my pulse is mad and wild and frenetic.
"Oh god," I whisper, when he paints my clit with my own wetness. "Oh god."
Shock sizzles through me at this touch, making me flinch, hiss, gasp—he dips inside me again, paints my clit again.
I press my forehead to his shoulder and tilt my hips toward him, panting shallowly, watching through slitted eyes as his long middle finger delves inside me…
and then he rotates his hand palm-up, adds his ring finger, and now I feel full, stretched, aching around his fingers.
I relax my hips, tip them forward again and again…my body wants more. So much more. I roam his back, palms drifting in circles from shoulders to small…clutch his sides, and then hook my fingers inside the elastic of his boxers, need battling panic as I consider whether I dare touch him.
His fingers slide into me, curl to press against my inner walls, exploring my depths.
withdraw slowly, gently, and again smearing my clit with my essence, and that sensation is so sharply, intensely erotic that I feel faint, panting raggedly, whimpering.
My stomach wobbles and clenches, and I rock into his touch as he fills me with his fingers, withdraws, smears me with my wetness.
Rhythmically, now. Plunge in, thrust once, twice, three times…
slide out…circle my clit once, twice, three times.
My body likes the predictable rhythm, responds to it by flooding my system with chemicals and hormones, turning my emotions into a jumble of joy and excitement and urgency and need and desire and hunger—for a blissful, beautiful moment, there are no whispers of criticism, no fear, no panic, no self-doubt, no self-judgement.
I'm filled with a maelstrom of feelings and I can't withstand the barrage of them; I can only cling to his neck and rest my forehead on his shoulder and watch as he touches me.
He is unhurried.
Each plunge of his fingers inside me is a slow slide into my slick heat, each withdrawal is a shuddering eternity. Each thrust is wet, squelching noisily—the battering, pulsing insistence of arousal drowns out the embarrassment I'd normally feel hearing that wet noise.
I gasp, spine hunching as I tuck my tailbone forward to push against his fingers. "Noah! Ohhhh…oh god, oh god, oh god."
Just because I haven't had sex in almost two decades doesn't mean I'm a sexless nun with a dry, cobwebby vagina, okay? I have an active and vivid imagination, a distractingly healthy sex drive, and a very expensive vibrator; I give myself an orgasm at least three or four times a week.
What I feel building inside me now eclipses those by several orders of magnitude.
My brain is haywire, the voice of criticism telling me I don't deserve this, he'll get tired of me, he's lying when he says I'm beautiful, as soon as he gets what he wants he's gone, he'll take one look at my fully nude body and be turned off, he'll get into sex and then some part of me that's not supposed to jiggle or flap will jiggle or flap and he'll be nauseated at the sight of me…
Desperate to silence that vicious, vile voice, I clutch at Noah's bearded jawline, whispering in his ear with hissing, breathless intensity. "Talk to me, Noah. Please. I…I need to hear your voice. Please, Noah."
He nuzzles the tender hollow beneath my earlobe.
"What do you want me to say, Morgan?" His voice is a low rumble, rough and raw and powerful and erotic.
"That you're so fucking sexy I can't stand it?
" His fingers curl inside me, squelching messily, slick out and smear wetness over my clit and rub in circles, slow and then faster and faster until my hips grind and pump against his touch.
“Yes," I gasp. “All of that. Please.”
"You wanna hear that I spent twenty fucking minutes in the shower yesterday, thinking about you?
" Faster, faster his fingers fly, driving the raging edge of climax closer and closer, leaving me shaking and whimpering and unable to hold the rhythm as his fingers swipe over my clit with blurring speed.
"You wanna hear that, Morgan? That I jerked off thinking about you?
I imagined this perfect, naked, sexy fucking body and I pictured you just like this, riding me as I made you come?
I jerked my cock so fucking hard, Morgan. Thinking about you."