Good Girl(35)

He pulls me to my feet and he kisses me and he tastes like me and it's dirty and shocking and sorta oddly thrilling and primal. He unsnaps my bra. The straps slip down my arms until it falls to the floor and then I'm naked. I'm naked with Rhys. This is the best day of my life. Except he's not naked.

"You're still dressed. Am I supposed to"—I gesture to his shirt—"am I supposed to or are you supposed to? Or do you like to keep your clothes on when you have sex?"

He laughs, his eyes dancing in amusement as he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off. "No, I'm not going to fuck you with my clothes on, Lydia."

"Oh, thank goodness. I've really been wanting to see you naked. For a long time. Like weeks. Since the bar. The first time at the bar, not the second time. Can I take off your pants?" My fingers hover at his waistband, poised to unbutton and unzip but needing the nudge of permission.

"Please," he says and then my fingers are in motion, unbuckling, unbuttoning, unzipping. It's harder to do this in reverse, removing someone else's pants instead of your own, but I manage. I'd manage even if it was a thousand-piece puzzle instead of just a zipper and a button because I want his pants off pretty badly.

When I've got the pants undone they drop to the floor and then the only thing separating me from sex is a pair of briefs, so I make short work of those.

He's beautiful. Head to toe. I could spend all night looking at him, all month, forever. But I don't have forever or even all night since Rhys is worried about his schedule so I take in as much as I can as fast as I can.

Because oh, holy crap, I know what Rhys Dalton looks like naked. The smattering of hair across his chest. His toned abs and flat stomach and the trail of hair from his belly button to his cock. The birthmark on his left hip and the definition of the lines that form on his abs. I send a silent prayer to baby Jesus that I'll get a good look at his butt before this is over because I need to know exactly what it looks like under those suit pants. Then too soon, he's moving me onto the bed because this is it. This is the sex.

Except it's not.





Nineteen





LYDIA



Not yet, because he spends forever—way longer than seven minutes—just kissing me. Kissing and caressing. My neck, my breasts, my hips, my thighs. Long calming strokes of his hands, gentle brushes of his fingertips until he's worked his way down my body and he's resting between my legs again. And then he's doing the tongue and finger thing all over again and I'm so, so wet and slick but when he adds a second finger it feels so freaking tight and I've seen firsthand that he's a lot bigger than two fingers so I'm not sure how this is going to work.

"You're really good at tongues," I manage to say after I've come a second time and he's kissing the insides of my thighs like they're interesting.

"Has anyone ever gone down on you before, Lydia?"

"No. Is that okay? Am I doing it wrong?" Am I coming too fast? Too slow? Too loud? Too quiet? Worry claws at me as I wonder if other girls are better at coming than I am, which is dumb. I know it's dumb but I've got nothing to compare this to. Maybe he went down on me twice because he wanted a different reaction? I don't freaking know.

Then I feel him smile against my thigh, which is a weird yet lovely sensation. "You're perfect," he says, placing another kiss on my thigh, his bottom lip dragging against my skin, the tickle of his facial hair affecting me in bizarre places.

He places a kiss on my stomach, directly below my belly button, and tells me again that I'm perfect and I believe him. It helps that I can feel his cock brushing against my leg when he does so, and it's hard. He's hard everywhere really. His body is so firm and taut and warm and perfectly heavy on top of mine, like a weighted blanket of male. He works his way back up my body, kissing and petting and making my body strum with more anticipation than an entire amusement park of roller coasters ever could. Then he kisses me again, our legs entwined and his cock lying heavily on my stomach. I want to touch him. I should touch him, right? Like touch touch?

"Tell me what to do," I plead, rubbing my hands up and down his forearms.

"Do anything you want," he says, pressing another soft kiss to my lips. He's lying so close to me, I can see the tiny lines around his eyes and the pulse beating in his neck. I run a fingertip along his eyebrow just because I can, because he's here in bed, with me. And then I snake my hand between us and run my fingertips along the length of him. His eyelids flutter closed and his jaw clenches, a small hiss of breath escaping when I touch him, so I feel emboldened to do more. To wrap my finger and thumb around him—as much as I can—and drag my hand from root to tip. He feels impossibly long and thick and I'm anxious about fitting him inside of me, but aching for it at the same time. I feel wet and needy and desperate and eager. And nervous—that too.

"Am I doing this okay?" I've wrapped my hand around the length of him and am slowly but firmly stroking him. I'm fascinated with the head, the slight ridge of skin letting me know I've reached the tip, the way the skin feels a bit smoother here. The tiny slit at the top, the bit of slick pre-cum that I found and rubbed between my finger and thumb before using it to massage the head.

"Perfectly," he says on another hiss of a breath. I glance at him from under my lashes and then lean forward and place a kiss on his chest.