Still Not Over You(41)

I suck in a breath as his hands rove higher, as he lifts the tank top over my breasts, baring me save for the barely-there bra cups that are no protection at all.

Not from his gaze. And not from the heavy, heavy touch of a possessive hand curling against my breast, cupping and kneading my flesh against him, until I feel like putty in his hands.

A whimper slips out of me. I can’t help but writhe, lifting myself up, digging my fingers into the ground, eyes slipping half-closed as I bite my tongue on pleasure.

His knee braces against the grass between my thighs. Every time I move, I'm grinding myself against the hardness of his thigh.

Struggling not to completely lose myself in these deep, drawing feelings he pulls out of me with every touch, every kiss, every beastly glance.

I’m so weak for him. A level of undone I thought only existed in my books.

So shamefully weak, he strips what last strength I have as he lowers his body over me, licks his way up my stomach in sizzling trails, catches my bra cup in his teeth, and drags the lace down to bare me to the kiss of night air. And to the kiss of his lips, as his mouth teases me once again with no buffering layer between us, pulling my hardened, tightening, tingling nipple into his mouth.

Desire shoots through me in hot bolts, every last one arrowing straight down. And his huge hand follows them, like he's guided by the invisible arrows of my pulsing need.

I’m so lost, such a mess, digging my dirt-stained fingers into his back, feeling like a little animal myself as I squirm against him...holy hell.

I don’t even realize what he’s doing until my shorts are open and suddenly there’s the heat of hard, thick knuckles against tender skin, slipping down, exploring and brushing over my folds.

I can’t stop my cry this time.

It rips out of me, a sweet hot tremor as everything inside me clenches. His fingers belong to the devil himself. They glide down slow, knowing to find where I’m already wet. So wet.

He had me in the palm of his hand before he even jumped the fence, as if my body sensed him coming and was ready.

He traces every dripping soft bit of me like he’s known even this secret part of me his whole life, a feeling more exposed than any I’ve ever known. I’m going to burn up inside. Going to die of this fever.

Just gasping every time pleasure crashes over me in rushes so raw they're almost painful.

He knows how to make me writhe. Knows how to make me spread my straining thighs and lift myself desperately toward his stroking fingers. Knows how to make me lose my breath when he teases one greedy point and then the next.

And he knows how to completely break any last resistance I had when he lets go of my sore, throbbing nipple with one last loving lick, swirls his fingers through my dripping wetness, and growls huskily against my ear, “...so you did miss me, Reb.”

Oh, God. I want to call him an asshole.

Want to tell him to fuck off. Want to tell him to fuck me, because he’s driving me crazy with this slow foreplay, this languid exploration that seems to strip away the civilized woman bit by bit to make me just as wild as him.

But whatever rises to my lips is silenced, choked off, as those devil’s fingers search deeper. Just two fingertips, sliding inside me, slow and testing – but they’re enough to set me off.

“Landon!” I gasp, arching hard against the grass.

Only the thick, pinning bulk of his body holds me in place. His fingers respond, surging slowly deeper, anchoring me with a rough confidence and certainty that twists me up inside and leaves me feeling so deliciously helpless.

No one else I’ve ever been with has made me so entirely, immensely aware of every sensation. I feel him down to the ridges of his knuckles, caressing inside me.

He conquers my whole world, in this moment; there’s nothing but the heavy rasp of his breaths in my ear, the heat and pressure of his body, the unyielding planes of hard muscle beneath my digging fingers, the sweet violation of his fingers coming deeper and deeper.

Twisting. Pumping. Taking. Pushing.

Thrusting me higher and higher each time he strokes, quickening his delicious pressure against the trigger points on my inner walls.

I can’t take it. My pussy can't.

He’s too damn much. He’s always been too much, but I never thought I’d find myself like this, wrapped around him and pleading with soft, needy keens in the back of my throat.

He’ll destroy me if he doesn’t end this soon. If he doesn't bring me off...

I turn my head, lips against his ear. “Landon,” I whisper.

I want to say please, please stop teasing. Please be with me. Please let me feel you.

But there are no more words. I'm hollowed out, and there's nothing but this twisty-aching-wonderful-awful-beautiful-terrible feeling inside that has to have him. And it won't go anywhere until he's had his fill of me.

It's like the wavelength stretching between us speaks for me. It’s as though he understands me, understands me the way the old Landon used to, the boy who called me Reb and told me I was better than all the people who hurt me. He stops, gently slipping his fingers from my body. That dark, commanding voice murmurs against my ear, my jaw, my throat.

“You want me?”

I nod, struggling to catch my breath as my entire body throbs with the after-impression of his touch. “Please.”

He’s already dragging my shorts, my panties away – peeling them down my legs, stroking over my thighs with his fingertips in the process, until they quiver.