Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(94)
It was a slow exploration of a part of my body I barely knew; he touched it with unhesitating gentleness, spreading me open with his fingers, slicking them with my heat, touching the silky point of my body that every nerve ending reached for.
A gasp filled my lungs, sharp and burning, my hips flexing involuntarily.
But nothing could have prepared me for the moment he closed his velvety lips over me and sucked.
My back snapped off the bed, my neck stretched in an arch and my chin pointed at the ceiling, the contact so pervasive, so encompassing that I found myself lost completely. My body was no longer mine; it belonged to him, to his fingers buried in the flexing center of me, to his lips and his stroking tongue, to his heart that loved me and to his soul that whispered my name.
And I called his as the trembling heat thundered through me, uncontrolled and all-consuming. He gave me the pressure I craved with his glorious mouth, his face nestled between my legs, brows drawn with intent, with benediction and quiet worship.
The sight of him was too much to bear, every sense flaring at once, white-hot and blinding as my body found release, kneading his fingers, drawing him into me. My lungs pulled in a breath so deep, it singed my ribs, burned with my heart, burned with the pulsing center of me. I burned for him.
His lips slowed as I found my way back to my body, testing first my fingers as my breasts heaved, then my neck as I turned my face and tried to open my eyes. Up my languid torso he moved, kissing a trail toward my breasts. But rather than settling back on top of me—even now in my sated state, I wanted to feel the weight of him against me—he lay at my side, pulled me into his arms, and brought his lips to mine.
The tang of my body on his lips sent an echoing pulse of my waning orgasm through me. And when he pulled away, his lids were heavy, his eyes hot as coals, his smile warm with love.
“Are you all right?” he asked, cupping my cheek like he was checking me for injury.
My brow quirked with confusion. “Is that a real question?” I asked back, my voice smoky and satisfied and amused.
Greg chuckled, taking that for the yes that it was, and kissed me again.
“I don’t know how I can top that,” I said, curling into his chest, the self-consciousness of the next step, the real step, finding its way into my voice.
His smile immediately soothed me. “Right now, you don’t need to know anything, except that I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I whispered before kissing him.
I kissed him with thanks and adoration, my hands on his chest and his on my bare hip. But down my fingers roamed, across the curves and ripples of his chest and abs, to the waistband and under, to the inflexible, unsatisfied length of him. My fingertips curiously marveled at the simultaneous stony hardness and decadent silkiness of him, relishing in the feel of him in my palm, the weight of him in my hand. I touched him gently, exploring the ridge underneath his crown and the wet slit at the tip, not knowing any other way, only thinking that, if it felt good to me, it would feel good to him too. His pumping hips told me I was right.
I tugged at the band, wanting to free him, wanting nothing left between us. The heat I thought I’d expended at the mercy of his mouth seemed to build again, starting in my heart and slipping down through me like a smoky fog.
He helped me slide his remaining clothes away, and our bodies came together—the heat of his chest against my breasts, the feel of his strong thigh slipping between mine, the length of him pressed to my flesh. And that need caught fire in both of us.
In a breath, I was under him, that glorious weight of him caging me, pinning me, leaving me unable to move and with no desire to. The kiss went unbroken as he spread my thighs with his legs, pressed his hips to mine, the length of his shaft shifting against my center, awake and tender and restless again. My body angled for him, my hips shifting and arching, the hollow in me aching to be filled by him. And he relinquished restraint, breaching me with only the very tip of his crown.
He broke the kiss, held my face, whispered my name, and I whispered his.
And when he flexed his hips, I was forever changed.
The pain was different than I could have possibly imagined, a breathtaking sting that drew on and on, a searing stretching of my body to make room for him. He edged into me, kissing my quivering lips, slowly gaining ground before pulling out again. His trembling arms bracketed my head, his fingers in my hair, but my mind was occupied solely with the point where our bodies connected.
He rolled his hips to press deeper, deeper still, and then he was fitted so completely inside of me, there was no space for anything but him. Not in my body, not in my heart.
For a moment, we breathed, a ragged drawing of air through parted lips, our eyes tethered together, using that thrumming line of connection to transmit all that we felt, those things for which there were no words.
Another flex of his hips, and the pain was less by miles, the utter bliss at the feeling of holding his length inside of me, of being filled by him so entirely, set my pulse hurtling. Again and again, first slow, cautious and gentle, but as my body relaxed under him, moved with him, opened up to him, his pace quickened. And with every thrust, each more demanding than before, his body tightened. His arms around me. His fingers in my hair. His sinewy neck and wide shoulders. His flexing ass. His straining cock in the sheath of my body. And I urged him with my hips and hands and lips to let go.
With a gasp and a grunt so deeply satisfying, my core flexed around him, he came, shuddering with exertion from holding back the urge to slam into me like I knew he wanted to, his fingers making deep divots in my hip.