Player(50)

My thighs clenched. His hands moved. My heart thudded. His fingers hooked the back of my dress. My breath hitched. He pulled.

With aching slowness, he skated the dress and my bra over the curves of my shoulders until my clavicle was bare. He stopped with his hands cupping my upper arms, the fabric twisted between his fingers.

His eyes locked on mine, searching the depths as I searched his.

Are you ready? read his pupils, wide and open and bottomless.

“Don’t stop.” The words spilled, trembled, begged.

His lips, strong and intent, pressed against mine, urging them open. His tongue, slow and persistent, warm and wet, tangling and teasing. His hands, light and easy, steady and unwavering, sliding my dress down my arms and to the ground in a whisper of silk.

The room was cold, but I was not.

His hands were everywhere, roaming the curves of my ass, tracing the valley of my spine, trailing up my neck, cupping my jaw. We wound together, my arms around his neck, fingers buried in his midnight hair, my breasts pressed against his hard, hot chest, skin to skin, heart to heart. And I wasn’t afraid.

Our bodies were flush, his hands finally finding a place they wanted to stay—my ass. His fingers flexed, the flesh spilling and tight between them, fingertips skating the edges of my panties. He dipped them into the hem at the very base of my spine and broke the kiss, panting.

“We’d better get to your lesson. If we don’t do it soon, I won’t be patient enough.”

“Okay,” I breathed, leaning against him, certain that if he let me go, I’d hit the ground like a sack of hammers. “Tell me what to do.”

A sound somewhere between a moan and a hum rumbled in his throat. “Take off my pants.”

I swallowed hard and nodded, my hands on a track for his waistband. First, the button. Then, the zipper. I felt the zing of it all the way up to my elbow. My eyes were on my fingers, on the V the zipper made, the dark thatch of hair inside. He wasn’t wearing underwear. The shape of his cock in his jeans caught all my attention, thick and straining.

I slipped my hands into the waistband at his hips, feeling the indentation of his glutes, the heat of his skin, the tight muscles of the tops of his thighs as I dragged his jeans down. The flap of his zipper held his cock for only a moment before it was free and bouncing gently from the force.

My eyes widened, my hands freezing, my gaze locked on the tip of his crown and the slit, beaded with a milky drop.

“Oh my God,” I whispered in reverential fear.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, gripping his base. “Give me your hand.” His free palm was up, waiting for mine.

I did as he’d asked. He turned my hand over in his, threaded his fingers between mine in a fan of fingertips, and wrapped our hands around his shaft.

“Feel it,” he commanded as he stroked.

I did. I felt the impossible hardness and softness of it, the length and weight shocking. I tried not to think how it would fit in my mouth—how it would fit anywhere—and instead explored the ridge of his crown, the veins of his shaft, the way his skin moved against the turgid flesh underneath. The slick, curiously weeping crown, the feel of it as I spread the slickness with my thumb.

“Lesson two,” he panted, his voice almost a whisper, “if it feels good to you, it feels good to me.”

He kissed me before I could speak, his mouth opening wide, his hands angling my face so his tongue could delve as deeply as possible. And all the while, my hands stroked, my fingers learning the lines, the ridges, the length of it until his hips rocked in rhythm.

He turned us around and backed us into the bed. My knees hit the mattress and bent—I sat with a surprised oof that broke the kiss.

It also put his cock at eye-level.

The urge to wrap my fingers about it and taste the tip of him overwhelmed me. But before I could reach for it, he lowered his lips to kiss me again, guiding me back. We crawled onto the bed, me backward and him on top of me, until we reached the pillows. Another inexplicable urge to pull his body down to mine, to feel the weight of him on top of me, to feel the length of him between my legs, was almost too strong to resist. But again, I was denied. He lay next to me, pulling me onto my side by my hip to face him.

For a moment, the kiss broke, and his gaze rested on my breasts. His fingers followed, tracing the curve, cupping, squeezing, kneading. But I couldn’t be still. I reached for his cock, eager to hold it again.

He pumped his hips once I had ahold of him. “Lesson three.” He pumped again slowly, intentionally. “I’m going to tell you what I want, what feels good, but only do it if you want.”

“I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t do, if you asked me.”

I didn’t mean it like it sounded. Or maybe I did and didn’t realize it. But his eyes caught fire at the implication all the same.

“Kiss me,” he instructed. “Starting here.” He touched his lips. “Ending here.” He flexed his hips into my hand.

My heart skittered in fear and anticipation, but I brushed it aside and leaned in, meeting his lips. Once we were connected, he slipped his hand into my hair and shifted to his back, pulling me with him in a twist, my hips still by his side.

I ended the kiss to move to his jaw, the bristle of his scruff scratching at my lips, my skin. But I couldn’t reach him, not like I wanted. So I moved.

I moved between his legs, avoiding straddling him—if I did that, we’d skip this lesson completely. Instead, I kissed down his chest, nestling my hips between his thighs. They were so big, the thick muscles clamping my ribs, squeezing my breasts together.