Falling into You (Falling #1)(65)
“Touch me,” he says. “This is whatever you want. Your pace.”
A fingertip, at first. Just the pad of my index finger grazing the very tip of him; he jerks under my touch, and his stomach retracts slightly, then relaxes. My lip hurts, I’m biting it so hard, and his fingers tighten in the flesh of my hip, his self-control exercised. I’ve done this to him before, but he was sleeping then, not watching. It’s different. I want to know how he likes it, what he wants, what feels best. I want to just touch him, hold him. I want to wrap my lips around him and taste him. That’s something I’ve only done once or twice before a long time ago, and I find myself wanting to try it with him.
I shift back on his legs so I’m on my shins, straddling his knees. Then, a deep breath, and I’m wrapping my hand around him. He’s thick in my palm, hard as rock, the skin soft and scorching hot. My heart is a wild drum in my throat, I’m barely breathing. His eyes are on me, his gaze unwavering and unreadable. I slide my hand down to his base, and he’s so long I can place my other hand on him, cradle him with both fists. I slip my fists up his length, then down again, and then I’ve got a rhythm going.
“God, Nell. I love the way you touch me.” His voice is husky, slow.
I don’t answer, not until I’ve bent over him so his pink, veined flesh in front of my face. “I want to taste you.”
“Whatever you want,” he says. “But I’m not gonna come in your mouth.”
“No?” I hesitate, then touch my lips to his head.
“Nope. Not this time, at least. I want to be inside you when I come. I want to be staring into your beautiful eyes when we come together.”
He tangles his hand in my hair, then slumps his head back when I find my courage and slip him between my lips. He tastes of skin, salt, and heat, and there’s moisture slicking his tip, touching my tongue and tasting of faint musk and salt. He moans, and I take him deeper, pushing him inch by inch into my mouth, running my tongue along him. I’ve got my fist around him still, and I slide it up and down on his base, and then my lips are touching my fist and he’s as far as he can go before I gag. I back away, sliding him out, moving my hand on him, then descend once more. He flutters his hips slightly as he reaches the back of my throat.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to gag you.”
I pull my mouth off him, but not my hands, and look at him. “It’s fine. I like the way you taste.” I don’t wait for him to answer, but wrap my lips around him again and take him deep.
This time, I gag myself with him on purpose, out of curiosity, to see how far I can go.
“Jesus, Nell.” He tries to pull his hips back, but there’s nowhere for him to go, and he’s hissing, tightening his fingers in my hair. “If you’re gonna do that, at least try to relax your throat. Don’t do anything you don’t want to. Don’t do anything ‘cause you think I expect it.”
I back away, then down again, and this time I relax my throat muscles and take him deeper. Oh god, oh god, ohmigod. So deep. So huge. Almost too much, but I like it. I don’t know what that says about me, and I don’t care. He likes it, I can tell. He’s holding back, but he really likes it. I set a rhythm, backing away until his tip is at my lips, then take him as deep as I can, sliding my fist on him as I back away.
“Fuck, Nell. Fuck, that’s incredible.” He’s breathless, trembling from the effort to hold still.
“You can move,” I tell him. “Don’t hold back.”
He groans and begins to move into my rhythm. I glance up at him as his head is at my lips, and his face is turned up to the ceiling, a look of pained rapture on his face. I love knowing I’m giving him this pleasure. His fingers are clenched into my curls, tight against my scalp. He pulls on me gently, encouraging me.
He moves, moves, thrusting into my mouth. I take him, take all of him. I know he said he wasn’t going to come in my mouth, but I decide to make him. I want it. I want to swallow it, taste it, feel it, feel him lose control in my mouth.
“Touch my sack,” he says, the words grated past clenched teeth. “Please.”
I cup his balls in one hand, and they’re tight, swollen. I massage them as tenderly as I can, moving my other hand at his root, pumping swiftly, bobbing onto him faster and faster. His breathing is ragged, his hips moving in uncontrolled spasms. I take him deep every time, and I don’t gag. I’m proud of that. I like feeling him in my throat, knowing he likes it, loves it. He’s given me such pleasure doing this to me, and now I can give it back.
He tries to pull away. “I have to—have to stop. I’m too close, Nell.” He tugs on my hair, twice.
I only move faster, and then I feel his hips give in and thrust into me again. I feel his balls tense and pulse, and then his hips strain at the apex of a thrust, deep in my throat. I feel a hot rush spurt down my throat. I back away so his tip is between my lips and suck hard. He groans loud and his hips buck and another stream jets into my mouth. I taste it this time, thick and hot and salty on my tongue, sliding down my throat as I swallow. I squeeze his base and pump, sucking still, and he unleashes a third time, a lesser amount and a softer spurt. When I feel the spasms subside, I take him deep one last time, then spit him out and slide up his body so I’m resting on his chest. His still-hard tip nudges my folds, and I can’t help but wiggle against it, working it in. I want to feel him inside me.