Lovegame(22)

“Everything?” I arch a brow as I slide my hands up his chest and start slowly, deliberately, unbuttoning his shirt. I watch his face carefully as I do it, noticing the light flush that stains his cheekbones as I stroke my hands down his bare chest, the way his eyes darken as I flick my thumbnails back and forth across his nipples.

“Just about, yeah.” He’s not content to just let me touch him, however. Before I’m ready for it, his hands are on my shirt, tugging it over my head before I can even think to protest. Seconds later, my bra goes the same way and then his mouth is on my breast, his tongue circling my areola.

Normally this does nothing for me—my breasts aren’t very sensitive—but there’s something about the contrast between the wet, soft warmth of his tongue and the sharp scratchiness of his five o’clock shadow that rekindles the first sparks of desire within me. My knees nearly sag with relief and I throw myself into it, arching my back, pressing my breast more firmly against both his mouth and his scruff. Trying my best to concentrate on the pleasure. On just that and nothing else.

But then his hand is on my ass, sliding beneath my jeans and my panties, and all I can think about is what comes next. And how I’m going to f*ck it all up.

No, I promise myself as I wiggle until he has no choice but to let me go. I started this to control him and I’m going to finish it the exact same way. “I want to touch you, too.”

“I didn’t realize it was an either-or situation,” he teases, but he doesn’t stop me when I reach for his belt and slowly, carefully unbuckle it.

But when I start to unbutton his pants, to pull his zipper down, he stops me by threading his hands through mine. “I’m past ready, baby. Let me help you catch up.”

And then he’s dropping to his knees in front of me, his long, nimble fingers peeling my jeans down my legs as he goes.

“Wait,” I tell him, suddenly frantic. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” he says, looking at me a little strangely. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

He leans forward, trails hot kisses over my navel, my abdomen, my mons.

Hooks his fingers in the straps of my bikini panties and wiggles them down my legs.

Presses his face against my sex and just breathes me in for several long seconds. “I don’t know what perfume you wear, but it’s been driving me crazy since I met you yesterday.”

I start to say Givenchy—like it even matters—but before I can unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth, he’s lifting one of my legs and resting it on his shoulder. Then he’s leaning forward and delivering one long, slow lick to my clit.

Pleasure crashes through me and I gasp, clutch at his hair for some kind of anchor. He laughs a little even as he wraps his hands around my ass and brings me even closer. “I like that sound. Let’s see if we can get you to make it again.” And then he’s circling my clit with his tongue, licking his way along my slit, delving deep inside my sex.

It’s arousing and terrifying and completely unexpected. Completely overwhelming. I struggle to assimilate all the emotions running through me, but it’s hard to think as heat unfurls inside me a little more with each swipe of his tongue.

It’s a slow build, from a flicker into a roaring flame, but it’s there. I don’t know how, don’t know why, and right now I’m not even sure I care. How can I when he’s carefully, carefully, carefully stoking the blaze.

There’s a part of me that can’t believe this is happening, that can’t believe that Ian Sharpe is on his knees in front of me, bringing me more pleasure than I ever imagined possible. But there’s another part of me—a bigger part—that doesn’t want to think about it right now. That wants only to enjoy this strange turn of events.

I try to focus on that part, desperate not to let the feelings inside of me slip away. Not this time. Not when I’m so close to the orgasm I can feel building inside of me.

Ian pushes forward, hitching my leg higher on his shoulder as—without warning—he slides two fingers deep inside of me.

I jolt at the unfamiliar sensation—it’s been so long since anyone or anything has been inside me—but he’s got my clit in his mouth and his fingers on my G-spot. Pleasure is tearing through me, sizzling through my veins and along my nerve endings with a speed that is making my knees tremble and sending me into sensory overload.

For a second, just a second, fear overwhelms the pleasure and I clutch at him. Hold tight.

I don’t know how to do this.

He must think I’m in danger of falling, because he tightens his hold.

Makes reassuring noises.

Eases me up and back, until my ass is resting on top of the kitchen table.

I gasp at the feel of the cool, slick wood against my skin, but he only laughs. Then he’s spreading my legs even wider, pressing his fingers even deeper. And his mouth—his wicked, wonderful mouth—stays exactly where it is.

I’m so close, the electric tension in me ratcheting up, up, up, with each long, lingering lick and I can’t help wondering if this is it. If it’s finally going to happen. If…

And then I lose it, the sensations disappearing as easily as they came.

I try to get them back, but the table feels cold against my skin. Cold and distracting and so, so familiar. Images keep flashing through my head, pictures and memories that are better left in the dark. I close my eyes, try to block them out, try to concentrate on what Ian is doing—on what I’m feeling—but it’s too late. It’s all there in my head, crowding in on me. Distracting me. Confusing me.