Do You Take This Man (32)
Lear cocked his head to the side before he dropped to his knees in front of me, his hands skimming over my outer thighs. “I like.” His fingertips slid under the hem of my robe and brushed the skin on the backs of my knees. “I’m used to you being bossier. Are we doing this?” He inched my robe higher, hands still exploring. His thumbs made circles on the insides of my legs, and his middle fingers danced behind my knees.
I sucked in a breath at the sensation. “I’m not bossy. I just know what you’re supposed to be doing most of the time.”
He smirked, toying with the hem of my robe. “So, we are doing this?”
When I nodded, he slid his palms up my thighs slowly until he reached the lace lining of my underwear, and he guided his fingertips along the edge, moving closer to my center and then away. “What should I be doing now?” He dropped his lips to my thigh, kissing the sensitive skin as his fingertips slid under the fabric and up the backs of my thighs.
He moved so slowly, and I pulsed with the desire to grab his hair and hurry him along. I hadn’t expected slow. I’d assumed it would be hard and fast, something I could walk away from. But this was maddening, and I was at his mercy.
“This?” He rubbed his finger in circles over my clit, the fabric of my underwear an unwelcome barrier. “Or this?” His lips brushed over the spot he’d just rubbed, the suction just strong enough to make me inch my pelvis forward.
“Yes,” I said, no longer caring that my voice was breathy. “More.”
“That’s the RJ I know,” he said, sucking lightly one more time before pulling my panties down my legs.
I stepped out of them and Lear guided one leg to his shoulder. I should have been concerned about several things, namely my body open to my mentor’s childhood friend, but his hand on my thigh and his tongue making a first incredible pass over my slick folds left me forgetting everything. Lear did this like he kissed, and my back arched at the flurry of sensation—the gentle lapping and slow circles, the pace slowing each time I neared orgasm. I moaned, grasping at the wall for balance, or maybe counterbalance, as I shifted my pelvis against his mouth. The edging made me want to cry out and promised a powerful release.
Lear pulled away, catching his breath and looking up. His lips glistened and my skin tingled even more. “This?” He dipped into me with a long finger.
My eyes closed against the feeling and he slid in a second finger, finding my G-spot.
“Or that?”
“Shut up,” I said, reaching for his head, no longer concerned at all. I guided his face back to me and cried out when he began to suck and lick while his fingers pressed against my G-spot. My thighs trembled, and a rush of intense anticipation flooded me. I might have fallen, but Lear’s other arm held me tight against him and his mouth. I cried out, telling him not to stop as the throb built inside and out and my body finally exploded, my head tipped back and eyes closed as wave after wave of intense pleasure ripped through me.
The world slowly came back into focus and I realized my fingers were still wound in his hair and my leg still rested against him. “Oh. Sorry,” I said awkwardly, sliding my leg down and pulling my hand away, leaving his hair mussed.
“It’s not a problem,” he said, sitting back on his heels and wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. His eyelids were hooded and his tongue peeked out over his lower lip. “It’s the farthest thing from a problem.”
Why is that so sexy?
I pulled at my robe. The bareness of my still-sensitive skin felt awkward as the orgasm faded and I covered all the places he’d kissed and touched. Raising a hand to my temple, I pushed back the hair I assumed was wild and out of place, though it felt like it had before. It was my mind that was spinning out of control.
He looked up at me. “So?”
“So . . . what?” I took a step back, my spine hitting the wall. I needed a few more inches between us, but then realization struck me. “Let me take care of you.” At this angle, I could see the outline of his erection and I wasn’t unimpressed, not that I hadn’t felt it against me earlier. I was looking forward to making him lose control.
He shook his head. “I meant . . . did my skills measure up to the dream?”
I paused my calculations of how I wanted to touch him. After a beat, I caught up, regaining my bearings. “You were okay.”
“Just okay?” He handed me the underwear that was sitting discarded at my feet, the cotton garment hanging off his finger. “I’m pretty sure the people at the bar three blocks away heard you crying out my name.”
I snatched the underwear from his finger, shoving it in the pocket of my robe, knowing he was probably right and hating that smirk that was seconds away from crossing his face. This was a tremendously bad idea, except that I could still feel the slight tremors following the onslaught of his mouth. “Fine. You have skills—well, you have a skill.”
“I used at least a few,” he said, rising to his feet in a smooth motion.
I took another step away, not wanting the temptation of him so close to me, needing a few more moments to catch my breath, because I realized with a daunting clarity that I wanted to kiss him again. “Do you want me to stroke your ego or stroke your dick?”
He looked less cocky than I expected, but just for a second before he shrugged and mirrored me, taking a step back. “Ego is good for now.” He glanced over my head, where a clock ticked on the wall. “I should probably get home.”