Love in the Time of Serial Killers(73)

Maybe Sam felt that, too, because his hands under my shirt were working maddeningly slow for someone who’d already seen me naked multiple times before. They slid up my rib cage, brushed against the sensitive skin under my breasts, flicked once against my nipples, which were taut and aching under my bra. But then he skimmed back down my sides and gave my leggings-clad thighs a squeeze, leaving me hungry to feel his hands on my bare skin.

“What do you want to feel?” he murmured, his breath warm against my cheek.

Everything. But instead, what came out was, “Taken care of.”

He broke off the kiss, his eyes blazing as he looked down at me. “Take off your shirt,” he said.

I crossed my arms at the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head in a motion that left my hair wild and tangled over my face. Sam brushed it away from my forehead, my temples, his expression almost contemplative despite the heat in his eyes. “Now your bra,” he said.

I wasn’t used to this bossy side of Sam, but it struck me what he was doing. The way he seemed to know that part of not wanting to think was not wanting to have to make any decisions, not wanting to have to tell my limbs what to do. He had taken that part over for me, and it was incredibly hot but also, strangely, incredibly sweet.

I reached behind my back to unhook my bra, letting it fall to the floor next to the bed.

He ran his hands along my shoulders, the ridges of my collarbones. His fingers sank into the tense muscles of my upper back, massaging in deep, sensual circles that caused a moan to escape my mouth.

“You deserve to be taken care of,” he said, and then his hand was on my hip, directing me. “Here. Let me do this properly.”

I turned around, scooting back until I was nestled in between his thighs, and he resumed his slow ministrations, his thumbs digging into the space between my shoulder blades. “Tell me if I’m too rough,” he said quietly into my ear, but I could only shake my head. It felt amazing.

He ran his nails down my back, the sensation sending a delicious crackle down my spine, before calming the activated nerve endings with a rub all the way down to my lower back. His fingers hooked in the waistband of my leggings, my underwear, before tugging at the stretchy material of the leggings. “Now these,” he said. “Only these.”

I had to stand up to comply with that command, rolling the leggings down from my hips and stepping out of them. It gave me a chance to see Sam’s face, his eyes hooded, watching me. Any questions I may have had about whether this was only about my pleasure were answered in that look, and further by the hard ridge of his jeans against my ass when I took my place back between his thighs.

I half expected him to touch me in a more explicit way than a massage of the shoulders, but he simply returned to the slow kneading of my back, no more improper than what you might ask a friend to do, albeit with fewer clothes. It made my body scream to be touched—I wanted his hands everywhere, on my breasts and in my mouth and in between my legs. I ground my ass against his erection through his jeans, trying to send him a message.

“Shhh,” Sam said against my ear, less a command to be quiet and more a soft sound of indulgence. “We have time. We have all night.”

He reached around to squeeze my thighs, massaging the skin there, too, his fingers brushing tantalizingly close to the edge of my underwear. I should feel self-conscious, in this position. There was enough moonlight coming through the window that he’d be able to see the dimples in my pale thighs, and sitting up made my hips and belly curve over the elastic waistband of my underwear. But somehow that part of my brain turned off with Sam, and I could focus instead on the way it felt as his hands spanned my inner thighs, urging me to spread them further.

Finally, he scraped just his knuckles along the pulsing core of me, the friction intensely erotic through the damp fabric of my underwear. My body jerked involuntarily at the touch, but then just as suddenly it was gone. He curved his hands under my ass, gripping my cheeks as he shifted me closer. I heard his sharp intake of breath at the contact, and I relished it, that sign that he was just as turned on as I was.

He cupped my breasts, rolling my nipples between his fingers in a way that instantly made my breathing shallow. “I love how you fill my hands,” he said. “I could come just thinking about your tits. I have come just thinking about your tits.”

“You have?” I barely recognized my own voice.

“Mmm,” he said. “That night after I jumped your car, I came home and thought about you. Just the feel of when you’d brush against me, when we were walking side by side.”

“Wow, you’re easy.” But it gave me a thrill, knowing he’d thought of me that way, even then.

He continued fondling one breast while his other hand slid down my belly, under the waistband of my panties, stroking me down my wet slit.

“Oh,” I breathed when he finally slipped a finger inside. “Fuck, Sam.”

“I like it when you say my name,” he said, and I said it again and again, until he added another finger and the strokes became faster, deeper, and I stopped saying anything at all.

I leaned back against him, my hair splayed out across his hard chest, my head resting on his shoulder, my throat exposed.

“You feel so good,” he said, his breath hot on my neck.

It was pornographic, the scene we made. Me with my knees up close to my chest, my legs spread, his fingers still working in me. Somehow the fact that he was still wearing his jeans, that I could only see the outline of his knuckles through the thin cotton of my underwear, only made it feel more so. But it was a vulnerable position, too, the way I was so open to him, the rasp of his voice in my ear. When I came it was so sudden it surprised me, my body clenching around his hand even as I grabbed his wrist, holding him there until the last of the aftershocks rippled through my body.