Chapter 7 The Lagoon Edge #3
His mouth slides lower, capturing my nipple through my shirt, sucking lightly. My hand clenches around him. He groans, hips rolling forward into my grip, and my patience finally snaps.
Buttons give under my hands. His shirt parts, revealing warm skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest. I drag my palms over him, cataloging the shapes—muscle, scars, hair, heat. He’s built like a man who liked being outside before he got trapped indoors for a living.
He feels like shelter. Like the rock overhang without the rain, the fire without the fear.
Our clothes quickly disappear in pieces—his shirt, my shirt, my bra, his shorts. Each discarded item is a small surrender until there is nothing left to hide behind.
When his mouth closes around my nipple this time, there is no fabric between us. My head thumps back against the bed. His hand slides downward, lower and lower, fingers slipping between my legs in one smooth motion.
His touch there is careful at first, testing, as if he expects me to flinch. Instead, my hips push into his hand, seeking more.
He obliges.
Two fingers stroke through my wetness, finding the rhythm my body learns in seconds. Heat coils tighter and tighter, each circle drawing a line up my spine. His other hand braces beside my head, arm flexed, keeping most of his weight off me even as I push closer, wanting all of it.
"You're so wet," he breathes out, voice almost reverent.
He crooks his fingers just right, and pleasure spikes white-hot.
My knees tremble. His thumb finds my clit, pressure perfect, circles enough to make my vision blur.
The edge builds fast, faster than in the cave, where fear and shock tangled with arousal.
Here, there is nothing but want. Clean and sharp.
My own fingers trail down his stomach, lower, wrapping around him. The hiss he makes against my mouth is gratifying and obscene. I stroke him, biting my lip at the feel of how hard and thick he is in my palm. I match the rhythm he's playing between my legs, and very quickly, we are both panting.
"I want to be inside you, Nora."
I groan and part my legs further in an invitation. Santi stops his teasing for long enough to move his body over mine.
The sight of him like that—dark eyes blown, chest heaving, wholly focused on aligning our bodies—is enough to knock me even closer to the edge.
He settles between my thighs, one hand braced by my head, the other gripping my hip. His broad head nudges at my entrance, the promise of stretch making my breath stutter.
He stops and looks down at me.
"This feels..." His eyes search mine.
I cup his cheek and smile softly up at him. "I know."
"You want me, Nora?" He looks almost lost. "You really want... me?"
I lift my hips, and the tip of his cock presses into me. We both gasp at the sensation, and my hands slide up his back, pulling him closer. "I want you, Santi."
His answering smile breaks on a groan as he pushes inside me.
The stretch of him is exquisite. Slow at first, burning just enough to feel real, to feel like my body is making space for him. My fingers dig into his shoulders. A low sound rumbles between us.
He fills me, each centimeter a slow, delicious invasion until his hips press flush against mine. We both freeze, breathing hard, letting our bodies adjust.
The first thrust steals our breath, pleasure spiking sharply. The second starts a delicious rhythm, each snap of his hips hitting a spot that makes my toes curl.
My body arches to meet him, finding the cadence that works—up when he drives in, down when he withdraws. Sweat slicks our skin where we slide against each other. The air around us feels heavy, thick with heat and breath and the faint scent of soap and sex.
His hand finds mine by my head, and he threads his fingers through mine. He squeezes once, then lets our joined hands press into the pillow as he thrusts again, harder.
"Fuck," I gasp. "Santi—"
He groans, pace stuttering. "Say my name again."
"Santi."
"Again."
My hips roll with his. "Santi."
His name tears out of me half on a moan, half on a laugh, because who knew he had this particular kink. "You like it when I say your name?"
"Your voice," he grunts, thrusting into me, using me for his pleasure, and destroying me with my own. "Saying my name... saying anything..."
I peer up at him and bite my lower lip, wondering if I'm brave enough, and then deciding to do it anyway. This is Santi after all. "Want me to talk dirty to you, baby?" I ask.
He freezes mid-thrust, and I feel his cock twitch deep inside me. He gapes down at me.
Not giving embarrassment a chance to leak in and steal my confidence, I prop myself up on my elbows beneath him and say, "It feels so good when you fuck me, Santi."
He drags his cock almost all the way out and then slowly drives it back in, his eyes hooded. "Yeah?"
I lick my lips. "Yeah. You're so big... so deep..." I cup my own breasts. "I love the feel of you inside me."
He watches my fingers toy with my sensitive nipples, and he groans, still going with that slow, dragging pace, sending hot spikes of pleasure through my core. "You... you're a dirty girl, huh?"
I grin up at him and let one hand trail lower to where we're joined.
I feel his cock sliding in and out, and then spread some of that wetness around my clit, almost fracturing beneath the dual sensation.
"I am. I'm a dirty girl. I loved the way you licked me today...
" I gasp, my fingers gliding across my clit. "Right here... like this."
"Want me to do it again?" He keeps thrusting, his cock thick and hot.
"Yes," I hiss. "Lick me, Santi. Make me come with your tongue... please..."