Lovegame(20)

Not with the way his calloused fingers tease my skin.

And definitely not with the way he feels pressed against me, his body hot and strong and oh-so hard.

“And if I told you I wanted to get f*cked?” The words slip out before I even know I’m going to say them, but once they’re out there, hanging between us, I don’t want to take them back. It’s never felt like this before—I’ve never felt like this before—and I want to know what that means.

Not that I could take the words back if I did want to, not when every muscle in Ian’s body has turned to rock against me. Including his cock, which has started to press insistently against the upper curves of my ass.

I close my eyes at the feel of him, rest my head back against his shoulder, and wait for it to start. The mauling, the heavy breathing, the headlong rush to his orgasm that’s been the same with every man I’ve ever even thought of being with.

As I wait, I almost regret my decision. Not to f*ck Ian, because for the first time in what seems like forever—what might very well be forever—I want a man. Want to kiss him and hold him and feel him slide inside my body. I want that more than I ever imagined I could. I just regret that I gave in too soon. That this delicious tension between us, this heat that continues to spark along my every nerve ending, will soon dissipate in his headlong rush to completion.

I brace myself for it. For the fumbling hands and the frustration. For the confusion and the blame.

Oh, I’m sure he’ll try to get me off—every man I’ve been with has at least tried to make me come. But when it becomes apparent that they can’t—that I can’t—they immerse themselves in their own pleasure instead.

I don’t blame them. How can I when it’s my failure that’s the problem?

“Do you want to be?” Ian prods, as he cups my left breast in one huge hand. “I told you I was going to make you say it.” As a little extra incentive, his thumb rubs back and forth over my nipple. My suddenly hard and aching nipple.

“Yes,” I grind out. “Yes, yes, yes.” I hope it’s clear enough because I can’t say it again. I can’t say anything right now. I’m too caught up in the ache blooming deep inside of me.

“Fuck.” He turns me around then, his hands cupping my jaws and fingers sliding into the complicated hairstyle I’ve been wearing for far too many hours. “Thank God.”

And then his mouth is on mine and I forget anything—everything—that I was going to say. Instead, I just sink into it. Sink into him.

And he lets me. More, he demands it of me.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting—through the years, I’ve kissed a lot of people a lot of different ways—but it isn’t this.

It isn’t the soft yet demanding way Ian’s lips move against mine.

Isn’t the way his voice goes all gravelly as he whispers dark and dangerous things against my mouth.

And it sure as hell isn’t the way he holds my face, like I matter. Like I’m special. Like I’m his.

I tamp the thought down as soon as I have it. That’s not what this is, I remind myself brutally. It’s not special, it’s not important. It’s just another back room Hollywood deal sealed with sex. He wants answers that I can’t give him and so I’ll give him this instead. Just because I’ve never done business this way before, just because I’ve never let it go this far no matter what my reputation is, doesn’t mean I can’t tonight.

I give everyone around me what they want, over and over again. Why can’t I—just for this one, brief moment in time—take what I want? Be what I want?

Just the thought has me curling my fingers into the silk of his shirt, has me relishing the contrast between the soft, cool fabric and his hard, warm body. I arch into him, seeking contact, warmth, more. He groans in response, tilts my head, runs his tongue along the seam of my lips in a bid to deepen the kiss.

It feels surprisingly good, the wet heat of him igniting the sparks deep inside of me. Fanning the flames. Spreading the pleasure. And so I give him what he’s asking for, my lips parting on a gasp that allows him to lick his way deep inside my mouth.

He takes his time exploring me, licking along the inside of my lip, my cheek, the roof of my mouth. Ian’s tongue is gentle, like the rest of him, and he tastes like lemon and mint and just a hint of the coffee that started all of this. It’s a good combination, one that grows stronger the deeper he delves.

And then he’s sliding his tongue along my own, pulling my lower lip between his teeth, biting down softly. Pleasure—pure and hot and completely unexpected—cascades through me and my fingers tighten on his shirt, my nails scratching against his chest in the process.

He groans again, mutters my name as his hands slide down to cup my ass and pull me against him. It still feels good—he still feels good—so I go with it, pressing myself as tightly into him as I can manage.

He’s even harder now than he was before, his cock long and thick and inviting. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m rubbing myself against him and relishing the pleasure that comes with the contact.

He groans again and I brace myself for what’s to come, for the storm that will dampen these first stirrings of pleasure and leave me bereft, alone, unable to connect with my body or his. It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex, a long time since I’ve been willing to open myself up like this to another person, especially when I know how it’s going to end. The fact that Ian has given me this much pleasure counts, though, and I’m ready for what’s next. Ready to make sure it’s good for him.