Good Girl(17)

"Tell me, Lydia. Say it."

I can't. So I simply nod and avert my eyes as some odd sound comes out of my mouth that is half embarrassed squeak and half I-might-die-if-I-don't-get-to-come-soon groan.

"Do you know how hot you are? How insane you're driving me? How hard you're making me?"

"No." I shake my head, glancing back to meet his eyes once again. "I was hoping I was but I wasn't totally sure, you know?"

He looks at me, a hint of confusion crossing his face before he smiles as if I've amused him. I smile back because he's beautiful.

"You're a little tease, aren't you? You know exactly what you're doing to me."

Well, I can feel him pressing against my leg so I'm not totally oblivious. Also, I think this means he likes me more than a kissing amount so I grin in response.

"You love being filled with cock, don't you?" he asks but it's more of a statement than a question. My eyes flare and I can feel the blush covering my cheeks. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth for lack of anything to say to that.

"I bet you're tight as hell. You probably have to get this wet to take a dick, don't you? I bet you'd stretch so tight around my cock I'd have to fight not to come the moment I pushed inside of you."

Good God. No one has ever spoken to me like this. I sit up a bit and trail my fingers along the light path of hair from his belly button to the top of his jeans. Then I move my hand to the outline of his dick where it's trapped against his leg and stroke him. I want him inside of me. I feel… empty. There's no other way to explain it. I'm empty and aching to be filled with him.

He exhales on a groan when I touch him and it sounds like heaven. The low timber of sound, not even a word. His hands have moved to the tops of my legs now that I'm sitting up again. His thumbs are on the insides of my thighs, his palms on top, and he's repeating the stroking motion he was making on the backs of my legs. My skirt is bunched around my waist, allowing his hands to slide all the way up, his thumbs resting on the taut muscles of my inner thigh where I'm stretched across his own leg. His hands stop, his thumbs kneading my heated skin before brushing along the elastic seam of the crotch of my panties. I know the fabric between is wet. I can imagine how my damp curls look, the wet fabric clinging and transparent. Pale pink stripes. That's the pair I put on today when I got out of the shower after the pool. A pale pink pair of cotton high-legged briefs with thin white stripes. Anything other than plain white I'd always considered kinda sexy. I can't imagine it stacks up against the skimpy thongs made of lace and silk he must be used to seeing a woman wear.

His eyes are trained on the wet spot between my legs when he speaks. "Do you want me to make you come, Lydia?"

"I might die if you don't." I blurt the response out without thought and my pussy flutters in expectation as he smiles again like I'm amusing him in some way. He uses one thumb to hook my panties to the side and rubs the other through the triangle of hair exposed from the movement. I keep my eyes on his face while his are on the needy spot between my legs.

He slides his thumb across my slick flesh then sweeps it across my clit and—oh, God. Feeling his hands on me, watching his face as he touches me, it's intoxicating. It makes me want more. More of him, more of whatever he can do. More of his filthy words and wicked fingers. More, more, more. Then he presses his thumb firmly against my clit and I come. I don't think it even takes a full three seconds of pressure and if I was in any kind of control over myself I'd have held out longer because the feel of him touching me there is unlike anything I've ever experienced. I've had boys shove their hands down my pants before, hesitant touches and groping fingers, and it didn't do much for me.

This is not like that.

Nothing like that.

He doesn't stop and the orgasm carries on in a way I'm not familiar with from giving them to myself. I'm used to a quick burst of release that has me pulling my hand away as soon as it's hit. Rhys keeps his thumb in place, rubbing firmly back and forth across the wet nub even though I'm clutching at his forearms and squirming. It's too much and I want to wiggle away. I want to stay. I want the pulsing fluttering heaven to stop. I want it never to end. My head drops forward, while a repeat of "oh, oh, oh," falls from my lips.

When it's over I collapse against his chest, snuggled under his chin while my chest rises and falls and my breathing returns to normal. Rhys whispers into my ear, words of how beautiful I am when I come, how much he enjoyed watching me. It gives me an odd sense of pride for having pleased him.

"You're really good at that, huh?" I mumble into his neck. He definitely smells good, I decide. It's not just the couch. He smells like an autumn day in Tennessee. Crisp and clean and earthy and male.

His chest moves as he laughs, his breath warming the top of my head. "Good at what exactly? I barely touched you."

"Good at thumbs, I guess. I don't know," I murmur into his neck again because I'm busy trailing my fingers along his skin, the pads of my fingertips occupied with committing the feel of his scruff to memory. The clean shave line, the smooth skin beneath it. The muscles of his neck. I find everything about him really, really interesting.

"Where the hell did you come from?" he says while winding a strand of my hair through his fingers.

"Knoxville." I sit up and look at him. "Tennessee," I add when he just stares at me. It takes me another few seconds to realize the question was rhetorical and then I feel stupid so I ask him where he came from. It doesn't make it any better, but it's all I could come up with.