Rogue (Real #4)(7)
He makes me so wet, my body starts bucking as he keeps sucking my breasts, making me pant.
I slide my arm up the coiled muscles of his chest. I rear upward and move my head to the source of his breath and whimper in the only way I know how to make him think about kissing me. He does. He gyrates his hips and presses against my hip bone as though he needs the contact, and makes a soft growling noise as he slips his hand between my legs.
I want him so much, I hurt.
I spread my legs wider apart and moan as he takes me. I squirm as my body begins tightening.
“I’m going to come,” I moan softly. “I’m sorry . . . I can’t . . . you feel too . . . good . . . I can’t . . .”
“Come,” he rasps, “it’s all right, we’ll do it again in a bit . . . come . . .”
Pure red-hot ecstasy radiates through my body, my knees falling open, my emotions whirling and skidding, my body clenching and clasping and unclasping his, his thrusts shooting currents through me until I do what his sinful body is making me do, and I come like a rocket.
I gasp from the force of my orgasm, twisting and arching beneath him. He pushes in as deep as he can go, and I shudder uncontrollably and whimper in gratitude every time he’s seated fully inside me, making me feel . . . the opposite of lonely. The opposite of sad or empty. And when my climax subsides and he’s still there—every thick, hot, hard inch of him snugly in my grip—my eyes flutter open, and I see him looking at me, with that look, wild, hungry, almost proprietary, but also strangely reverent and gentle as he starts to move in me again with expert precision, our eyes clinging, the way he f*cks me gently now making little stars dance across my vision as another delicious climax builds and builds.
I don’t expect to but I come again. Hard. If possible, even harder, because the walls of my sex are sore and sensitive, and my clit throbs every time his hips ram up against mine—and the pleasure grows exponentially until it’s slicing me open in a pure burst of pleasure. My nails rake into his skin. I scream his name, almost scared from the intensity. He muffles my cries with his mouth, and this time he snakes his tongue around mine and cuts off his name to Grey. He groans as if he likes to taste his name in my mouth, his muscles are flexing against me as he goes off, his chest brushing against my breasts as he comes with me.
When his shudders subside after mine, he rolls to his back and, because he’s still inside me and has both arms around me, I end up coming with him. We lie in breathless silence for a moment, tangled and not even caring about whose arm is where, or whose leg is hooked between the other’s. I am so absolutely dazed, f*cked, and blown the f*ck away, I almost expect to see pieces of me scattered across the floor.
After a couple of minutes, I let out a noise of protest, wanting to get up. He releases me, allowing me to tiptoe to the bathroom to clean up. He follows, knotting up the condom, and as I wash my hands he comes up behind me to take the soap and wash his hands along with mine while our gazes meet in the mirror. I see my reflection and . . . no, I don’t look like a wet rat. My cheeks are flushed pink, my hair is bed mussed, and when he smiles at me and cups my breast from behind, I’m done for. “Come back to bed so I can make you pant a little more,” he whispers, into my skin.
“I don’t pant,” I say, taking his hand, the one on my breast, and pulling him out to the bedroom with me.
“You pant, moan, yelp, and now you’ll do it all over again for me.”
“I didn’t do that!” I say as I drop back down, and when he crawls over me, I feel perfectly sober. I’m not even tipsy anymore. I know I will remember every inch of the way his face looks, intent and ravenous, and as he starts playing with my breasts I start panting as he trails his fingers along my rib cage, circling my bellybutton, watching me with a smile that tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing. I smile back, because bad boys will always be the end of me, and I touch his nipple ring, feeling his erection thicken against my hips as I raise my head and start quietly sucking him. I know how to play these games too, my sexy sex god, I think. “Now who pants,” I murmur playfully.
“I think you’re hot as f*ck,” he says as he rolls over and brings me with him, pressing my head to his nipple ring as though he wants me to suck harder. His big body shudders with pleasure, and desire pools between my thighs as I keep tugging with my teeth and using my tongue, feeling him swell hard and pulsing against me.
The entire night we play with each other, teasing, tasting, fondling, f*cking.
Every touch, every whisper, everything I share of myself with him feels so right; like an electric wire plugged into the right socket, I feel a new life force flow in me, almost euphoria.
During our heated make-out sessions, I find him looking at me through thick dark lashes, a playful curiosity glimmering in his eyes.
He asks about me as if he truly wants to know, and I feel like we’ve known each other before . . . in some dark, forbidden place.
When he kisses me heatedly on the mouth during another make out, I come at him with the intensity of a natural disaster, and this may be what this is, but there is no stopping me, no stopping him, it seems, from having and undoing me.
Around five a.m. his phone rings for the third time. We’re still kissing with lazy intensity and my lips feel raw and red and swollen and my breasts are deliciously sore but I’m still begging for more. Growing exasperated with the buzzing, he finally answers gruffly, “This better be good.”