Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(57)
“It is good,” she whispers back. “So, so good.”
Closing my eyes, I hold her, convincing myself to calm the f**k down. I’m not doing this. I’m not f**king her in a hotel room in an unknown city, Chelsea still edged with that hint of sadness that had consumed her earlier. I don’t care how bold she is, how much she wants it, how good she feels, her naked body pressed against mine.
I’m high. I might not remember this clearly. Worse, I might mess up somehow and I could never, ever forgive myself for that.
“I just want you to touch me.” She sounds restless, frustrated, and I lean away from her so I can look at her pretty face. Smoothing my hand over her hair, I push the stray strands away from her cheeks, my gaze locking with hers.
“I want to touch you, too,” I admit, letting my eyes drop to her chest. God, she’s perfect. I’ve never liked big or fake boobs, and I feel like Chelsea’s were made just for me. Unable to stop myself, I curl my hand around her breast and squeeze, circling my thumb around her rosy nipple.
Her pretty little nipple reminds me of her middle name. The poem I wrote for her. How I could reenact that poem right here, right now. Slip my hand between her legs, searching those pretty pink folds, and have her crying out my name, shattering in an instant …
“Lie back,” I tell her, removing my hand from her chest so I can guide her where I want her.
She goes willingly, her body trembling, her eyes wide as she stares up at me. I lean over and kiss her, taking it deep and hot in an instant, hoping she’ll lose her head so she’s not so focused on the moment and worrying what’s about to happen to her.
“Have you ever touched yourself, Chels?” I move so I’m the one straddling her now, my mouth on her br**sts, my lips wrapped around one nipple, then another. She arches into me, a breathy little moan escaping her, and my c**k is hard, heavy and aching as it presses against my briefs, desperate to get free.
Damn it, I can’t take off my underwear. The moment I do, I’m done for. I’ll be inside her so fast she won’t know what happened.
“Hey.” I lightly bite her nipple, making her yelp, and she glares up at me, shock written all over her face. “I asked you a question.”
“A question I’m not going to answer, Owen.” She slings her arm over her eyes and huffs out a breath. Indicating that yes, indeed, she has touched herself, and that particular image pops into my brain with so much force I have to take an imaginary crowbar to it and pry it out of there before I get too distracted.
“Hmm, that tells me a lot.” I let my hand wander down the length of her body, trying my best to pay close attention to all the signs, the indications of what she likes, what makes her crazy, what doesn’t do anything for her. She prefers a gentle touch. I’ve discovered that over the last couple of weeks, every time I’ve had her in my arms. A skim of my nails along her skin, or I’ll rub circles in her neck, along her shoulders, kiss her softly, taking it deeper, licking her neck …
I keep my touch light, running my fingers along her arm, across her stomach, back up to circle her br**sts, her ni**les. She holds her breath, releasing it in a shuddery exhale before she holds it again, and I smile at her, loving how strongly my touch makes her react.
“Breathe, Chels.” I dip my head and lick her nipple, making her gasp. “The only way you can enjoy this is if you’re breathing.”
“Trust me, I’m enjoying it, Owen.” Her voice trembles and she closes her eyes when my fingers map the sweet curve of her stomach, circle the slight dip of her belly button. Her skin is so f**king soft. Everywhere. “So, so much.”
She spreads her legs the slightest bit and my hand wanders farther, grazing her pubic hair, the heat of her branding my hand and I haven’t even touched her there yet. I can smell her, though, lemony sweet, unique and musky, the scent of sex and woman and Chelsea.
I slip one finger down, encountering wetness. Heat. So much heat. I go farther and groan when I find her slick and creamy. Hot and wet. I search her folds at the same time I fuse my mouth with hers and swallow her cry.
She moves her hips against my finger and I add another, then my thumb, which I use to circle her clit. I keep it slow, my kiss slow, my brain slow as I bring her closer. Closer still.
Responsive. She’s so responsive. I never want this to stop. I want to remember this moment forever and I’m afraid it’ll slip right out of my brain when I fall asleep afterward. Sometimes when I’m high, I forget. And the shit I smoked earlier had been good. Too good. The kind of good that’ll make you forget everything, because that’s what you usually want to do when you smoke weed.
But I don’t want to forget any of this. This moment is one of the most important of my life. I’m about to make Chelsea come for the first time by my hand.
Not necessarily a moment I can talk about in public, but it’s mine. All mine. And I don’t ever want to forget it.
“Owen.” She breathes my name across my lips, the sound of her voice sending a spiral of heat throughout my blood, and I lick her lips, thrust my tongue in her mouth, silencing her.
I push my index finger inside her, her tight, velvety hot flesh clamping all around me. God, she would feel so amazing around my cock. Too damn amazing. I’d probably come in an instant.
I could almost come just thinking about it.
She moves against my hand, thrusting her hips, arching her back, trying to send me deeper. I add another finger, my thumb brushing her clit back and forth, over and over, and she lifts her hips higher, her feet planted on the mattress, her legs spread.