Everything I Left Unsaid(73)

I smiled against his lips and gave him a good rub.

He grabbed the back of my neck, holding me still, and opened his mouth. His tongue touched my lips. I couldn’t quite swallow my gasp. Surprise and pleasure. His tongue slipped into my mouth. Intimate and invading. And for a moment I could just sit there, passive, and experience it. The slick slide against my own tongue. My teeth.

But then, very suddenly, it wasn’t enough. And I was struck with the very real fear that nothing was going to be enough with him. Not ever.

I could do every single sexual thing I’ve ever thought of and it wouldn’t be enough.

Starving for him, for what he could give me, I wrapped my arms hard around his neck and tilted my head, opening my mouth to accept him. To let him in. As far as he wanted to go.

Take it, I thought. Take me.

There was nothing careful anymore, nothing tentative. It was as if we’d both realized we were starving for the other. Like we wanted to devour each other. My lips ate at his, my tongue was in his mouth, and he pulled me even closer, until my arms and my legs were wrapped hard around him. He jerked me against him, even tighter. Even closer.

It was going to take an act of God to get me out of his arms.

His hands slipped down my back to my ass and he started to pull off that thin, little-girl underwear.

“Grab me,” I breathed against his mouth.

“What?”

“Grab me. Grab my ass.”

It was the thing with the stripper and I didn’t know if he’d remember. Or care.

But then he palmed my ass in his hands, gripping me hard. I pushed against him and he squeezed, lifting me, the tight elastic of my underwear cutting across his hands and my skin.

“Why do I like that?” I groaned. “Why—”

The tips of his fingers teased the crease between my cheeks and I shook in his arms. The pressure to come again was nearly painful and I put my teeth against his neck, hurting him, just so I hurt less.

He jerked against me, tipping his head, giving me more room to play.

“Harder,” he said. “Bite me harder.”

So I did.

“Fuck,” he groaned.

“I want—” I stopped, laughing, because I really didn’t know how to put all of this into words. How to make sense of it. There was a storm raging inside my skin.

“Tell me.”

“More. I want more. Your hands—”

“Where?”

I pushed my hips at him, hoping he’d get the message.

“Don’t tell me you’re shy?”

“Please…just…touch me.”

He kept one hand on my ass and shoved the other through the curls between my legs until he finally got his fingers inside my slit. His middle finger slid past my clit and I jumped in his arms, arching toward him, hoping to lure him back to my clit, but he wasn’t interested.

“I’m going to f*ck you, baby,” he breathed against my neck. “With my hands. My tongue and then my cock.”

God, I was so wet. So wet. I bathed his fingers right there at the entrance of my body. But very suddenly this felt far too lopsided. It was the phone calls all over again. Him with all the cards, me panting for more. And he could do all those things to me, with his mouth and his tongue and his fingers and body. And I would let him. I wanted him so bad I could barely understand it. But there were things I wanted to do to him.

There was an equality in this that I needed. So much of this was wrong. So much.

But a little equality would make so much right.

I remembered what Tiffany said the other day outside her trailer—sometimes it felt good to be the one giving something.

“Stop,” I breathed.

“What?”

I pulled away, shoved myself back so I could get my hands between us. The flesh of his stomach was hot against my fingers as I shoved his shirt up and started to open the fly of his jeans.

“I want…” I shook my head, the short blond hair falling over my eyes.

“What?”

“I want to suck you. I want to put you in my mouth.”

From the book. The f*cking stripper.

“So bad, Dylan. I want that so bad.” I nudged at him when he didn’t seem eager to move. He was watching me with those unreadable eyes, but I was burning too hot to wonder what he was thinking. “Get up,” I said. And he braced himself against the arms of the chair and pushed himself up. He grimaced as if it hurt.

“Are you okay?” I asked, reaching for his neck, which he held so stiffly.

“I’m good,” he said, standing up straight. Because of his height and how I was sitting, that rod in his pants was at eye level.

My fingers, thick and clumsy, fumbled, but I got the zipper open and then my hand was around his cock, pulling him free of his pants and the cotton of his boxers. He was huge in my hand. Wide and long, the head purple, nearly, and damp. I blew out a long breath, which feathered across his skin. He hissed and put a hand to my neck, cupping it in his palm, his thumb pressed against my pulse, as if he were feeling my heartbeat.

Anticipation stretched so thin between us, it could shatter like glass with the wrong move. And I was suddenly paralyzed with indecision. I didn’t know the right move from the wrong move and all that was pushing me along was instinct.

But maybe my instincts were as f*cked up as I was.