The Decoy Girlfriend(72)

“I need you to say it, Freya,” he says gently.

“Yes,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “Yes, I want you.”

Without taking his eyes from her, he palms her dress up to scrunch at her waist. Her silky nude panties are soaked, and when he takes in a sharp breath, she knows he’s seen it. But to her surprise, he doesn’t just yank them off. Instead, he leans in to press a soft, lingering kiss behind her knee. His breath is hot and the pressure of his lips just right as he drags his mouth up her inner thighs in nibbling little kisses that make her muscles twitch the closer he gets to her center.

Freya’s back hits the mattress as she spreads her legs even farther apart for him, whining when he doesn’t stroke her where she really wants to be touched.

“Impatient,” he says, sounding amused and maybe a little smug, too. “I’m going to take my time with you, sweetheart.”

At the first graze of his teeth on her inner thigh, so close to where she wants him, she almost snarls her frustration. But then the tip of a finger flirts with her folds and her stomach reflexively tightens. His touch is featherlight, never quite reaching her clit but circling the rest of her until her thighs tremble and her breath quakes.

The same finger dips inside her in shallow exploration before withdrawing and repeating the process, knuckles pushing in farther with each thrust. “Fuck, you’re so wet for me,” says Taft, voice strangled.

“More,” she begs, tossing her head to the side, feeling the blush rise in her breasts. She wants his hands on her, wants him to peel off the dress until there’s nothing separating them, but he doesn’t seem to want to be rushed.

He adds another finger, curling his fingers just right, and she can feel his eyes on her face when she clenches around him. The sensation feels good, but it’s not enough. Only once does the heel of his palm pin her clit as he experimentally rotates his wrist, hitting new angles. He gives her a knowing look when she keens for him but doesn’t repeat the move.

It awakens something primal in her, something that wants him inside her now. She aches to feel full.

He moves in and out of her, building the tension until her clit is throbbing. When he swipes some of her own wetness onto the bud, the friction from the pad of his thumb makes her hips jerk. Only his other arm splayed over her waist keeps her still, which is useful a moment later when his mouth takes over.

Taft’s talented tongue knows exactly where to swipe and swirl, coaxing the neediest sounds out of her. Each flick makes her writhe and fist the sheets, thrashing her head with utter abandon. Her limbs melt under his ministrations, every shudder he pulls from her rolling through her body like magma.

Like everything he does, even in this he’s thorough and devoted, leaving no part of her untouched.

The teasing abruptly stops and he starts sweeping kisses over her thighs again, tiny butterfly caresses that send tingles down her legs but do little for the tension building inside her.

“Taft,” she gasps. “Please.”

Whatever he hears in her voice must convince him, because he nuzzles her skin with his nose one final time before using his thumbs to part her folds. His tongue moves against her with new fervor, lapping and feasting until her vision almost shorts out. Eyes tightly closed, she digs her fingers into his hair and pulls him closer. Now both his mouth and his fingers are working her, his tongue circling her pulsing clit while his fingers curl inside her.

“I’m . . . I’m . . . ,” she starts to gasp, stomach tightening with a familiar feeling.

“That’s it, baby. Let go,” he encourages.

His thumb grinds against her clit and she cries out, the crescendo starting to build.

That’s when his lips clasp her clit, sucking hard, and just like that, Freya crests. She comes apart around his mouth, feeling his tongue and his fingers and his teeth stoking her need. His touch calls her back, grounds her to him, even as her body shudders and her toes clench.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

“Me?” Her laugh is strangled. “I should be telling you ‘Good job.’?”

“Tell me, then,” Taft says cheekily.

She smirks. “Earn it first.”

He gives her a few more thrusts of his fingers, helping her ride it out, and when she falls back to earth with bright eyes and mussed hair and sticky thighs, he gives her a slow grin and wipes his chin with the back of his hand before very deliberately licking his fingers clean.

It’s indescribably hot, and even though she feels a bit like jelly, Freya leans forward to cradle his face between her hands. When her lips land on his, she kisses him like a revelation, relishing the stubble along his jaw. She tastes herself in his kiss, especially when their tongues tangle and he moans into her mouth.

She draws him up until he’s standing between her legs. But when she reaches for his belt, he shakes his head and moves her hand away.

“I want to make you feel this good, too,” she protests.

“Pleasuring you did make me feel good.” The way he says it, all deep and throaty, washes her skin with goose bumps. He grins at her reaction before starting to undress, then scoots them both back until their heads are on the pillows.

It seems a bit unfair to Freya, but when he kisses her again—his warm hand drawing down the zip of her dress and then stroking her flushed skin—she decides to temporarily let him think he’s won.