Chapter 3 – Elizabeth #2
He takes his time. Traces every curve like he's memorizing me—the dip of my waist, the flare of my hips, the soft give of my stomach that I've always been self-conscious about. But when his hands span my waist, thumbs brushing the softness there, he makes a sound of pure appreciation.
His mouth finds the icing still sticky on my neck, and he licks a slow path along my skin that makes me shudder.
"Sweet," he says, and I can feel him smile. "But I bet you taste better."
"Jason." His name comes out desperate, pleading.
"What do you need?"
"You. I need you."
He pulls back just far enough to meet my eyes. "Where?"
I glance toward the fireplace, where the quilt is still draped over the couch from last night, warm and soft and perfect.
"There," I breathe. "By the fire."
He lifts me off the counter like I weigh nothing, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, and I can feel every hard plane of his body against mine as he carries me across to the fireplace.
The fire has burned down to glowing embers, but the room is still warm, and when he lowers us both to the rug, the softness beneath me and his weight above me feel like the only real things in the world.
"You're sure?" he asks one more time, hovering over me, his weight braced on his forearms.
"I'm sure." I pull him down into another kiss, and this one is slower, deeper, a promise of everything about to happen.
His hands find the buttons of the flannel shirt, and he undoes them one by one, deliberate and torturously slow. With each button, he presses a kiss to newly exposed skin—collarbone, sternum, the valley between my breasts. By the time he pushes the fabric aside completely, I'm trembling with want.
"Cold?" he asks, running his hands up my sides.
"No. The opposite of cold."
He makes that low, approving sound again, and then his mouth is on my skin, lips and teeth and tongue exploring every inch he's uncovered.
When he reaches behind me to unhook my bra with practiced ease, sliding the straps down my arms and tossing it aside, the cool air hits my heated skin and makes my nipples tighten.
His eyes darken as he looks at me, sprawled beneath him in nothing but my underwear, and the reverence in his gaze makes me feel powerful.
His mouth closes over my breast, hot and wet, and I arch off the rug with a gasp that turns into a moan.
He takes his time with each breast, sucking and licking and using his teeth just enough to make me squirm. When he rolls my nipple between his fingers while his mouth works the other one, pleasure spikes through me so sharply I cry out.
"More," I manage. "Jason, I need—"
"I know what you need." His voice is pure gravel and promise. His hands slide lower, finding the waistband of my underwear, and he hooks his fingers under the elastic. "Lift."
I do, and he slides the fabric down and away, leaving me completely bare beneath him. He sits back on his heels, just looking, and under his gaze I feel beautiful. Wanted. Worshipped.
His hand runs up my inner thigh, achingly slow, and I spread my legs wider without him having to ask.
"So responsive," he murmurs, his fingers brushing feather-light over where I'm already wet and aching for him. "So perfect."
"Please," I breathe, and I don't even know what I'm asking for, just that I need more of whatever he's willing to give me.
He traces through my folds with one finger, slow and exploratory, learning what makes me gasp and what makes me moan. When he circles my clit with just the right pressure, my hips jerk off the rug.
"There," I gasp. "Right there."
"Here?" He does it again, maintaining that perfect pressure, and I'm already climbing toward something inevitable. He watches my face while he touches me, drinking in every reaction, every sound I make. When he slides one finger inside me, I clench around him instinctively.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're so tight. So wet."
The crude words send another wave of heat through me. He adds a second finger, stretching me, and starts moving them in a rhythm that has me clutching at his shoulders. His thumb finds my clit, maintaining that steady pressure, and I'm gasping and writhing beneath him.
"That's it," he murmurs against my throat, his breath hot on my skin. "Let me feel you. Let me hear you."
And I do. I fall apart under his hands with his name on my lips and the fire warm on my skin and his body solid and real above me. The orgasm crashes through me, making my whole body tense and shake, and he works me through it with devastating precision, only gentling when I start to come down.
Before I've fully caught my breath, he's shifting, moving lower, pressing kisses down my stomach, my hip bones. When I realize what he intends, I try to protest. "You don't have to—"
"I want to." He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, then the other, his beard scraping deliciously against my sensitive skin. "Let me."
Then his mouth is on me, and thought becomes impossible. He licks through my folds with the flat of his tongue, slow and thorough, learning my taste.
When he focuses on my clit, already sensitive from my first orgasm, I cry out and my hands fly to his hair. He groans against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my body.
"Jason, I can't—it's too much—"
"You can." He hooks his arms under my thighs, holding me open, and doubles his efforts.
His tongue circles and flicks and sucks while I fall completely apart above him.
When he slides two fingers back inside me, curling them to hit that spot that makes me see stars, I shatter again with a broken cry.
He works me through it, gentling as I shake and gasp and try to remember how to breathe.
When he finally moves back up my body, his lips are wet with me and his smile is pure masculine satisfaction.
"Your turn," I manage, reaching between us to find him hard and straining against his jeans. I palm him through the denim and he hisses, hips jerking forward into my touch.
"Not yet." He catches my wrist gently, pinning it above my head. "I want to be inside you."
"Then do it." I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the rough denim against my bare, sensitive skin. "I want you, Jason. All of you."
He releases my wrist to work open his belt, the sound of metal loud in the quiet room. I help him with the button and zipper, and when I slide my hand inside to wrap around his cock, we both groan.
He's hot and hard and thick in my palm, and I stroke him slowly, feeling him pulse against my hand.
"Fuck, Elizabeth." His voice is strained, his control visibly cracking. "You keep doing that and this is going to be over before it starts."
"Then get inside me."
He pushes his jeans and boxer briefs down just enough to free himself, and when I see him fully my mouth waters. He positions himself at my entrance, the head of his cock pressing against me, and we both go completely still.
"Look at me," he says roughly, and I do. His green eyes are almost black with desire, his jaw tight with restraint. "I want to watch your face when I fill you."
Then he pushes inside, slow and steady, and I feel every inch as he stretches me. The sensation is overwhelming—fullness and pressure and pleasure all mixed together.
He starts with slow, deep strokes that have me gasping and clinging to his shoulders, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside me. The angle is perfect, the rhythm building gradually, and I can feel another orgasm building already.
"You feel incredible," he groans against my neck, his breath hot on my skin. "Like you were made for me. So tight and wet and perfect."
"Harder," I gasp. "I need—harder—"
He braces one hand beside my head and uses the other to grip my hip, holding me steady as he increases his pace.
The sound of our bodies coming together fills the room, slick and obscene and perfect.
Each thrust drives deeper, and I can feel him hitting that spot inside me that makes everything go white at the edges.
"There," I cry out. "Oh god, right there—"
He maintains that angle, that rhythm, driving into me with controlled precision even as I feel him starting to lose the edges of his restraint. His breathing is ragged, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding back, and I want him to let go completely.
"Don't hold back," I gasp, wrapping my legs tighter around his waist. "I want all of you."
Something in him breaks. His grip on my hip tightens, hard enough to leave marks, and he hooks my leg over his shoulder, changing the angle even more.
"Touch yourself," he commands, his voice rough. "I want to feel you come on my cock."
I slide my hand between us, finding my clit, and the added stimulation is exactly what I need. I circle the sensitive bud with my fingers while he pistons into me, and the sensation has me climbing fast.
"That's it," he groans, watching my hand work between us. "Fuck, that's so hot. Come for me, Elizabeth. Let me feel it."
His words, combined with the relentless drive of his cock and my own fingers on my clit, send me over the edge.
I come with a broken cry, my pussy clenching around him rhythmically, and the sensation drags him over with me.
"Fuck—Elizabeth—" He thrusts deep one last time and stills, his whole body going rigid as he comes. I feel the hot pulse of him inside me, filling me, and it sends aftershocks through my oversensitive body.
He collapses beside me on the rug, both of us breathing hard, our bodies slick with sweat despite the cooling fire.
After a moment, he pulls me against his chest, reaching for the quilt and draping it over us. His hand runs slowly up and down my spine, soothing, and I can hear his heart gradually slowing under my ear.
Neither of us speaks. My body feels heavy and sated, completely wrung out in the best possible way. I trace mindless patterns on his chest, feeling the scatter of hair under my fingertips, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
I study his face in the soft light—the hard line of his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the slight furrow between his brows that doesn't fully relax even now.