Thick Love (Thin Love, #2)(6)
“I…I can make you feel good.” I doubted she heard my promise. Either of them.
The girl laying in front of me was still nervous, hands trembling, matching the quick shiver of my fingers, but I couldn’t stop her from worrying, from feeling whatever it was that had her shaking as I came closer, lowering those pink straps, running my tongue over the curves of her generous tits.
“You’re beautiful here, sugar.” She tasted like her lilac-smelling perfume. She was delicious and the sounds she made as I kissed up her neck, over her collarbone encouraged me. “And here…” I said, marveling at those perfectly round nipples I uncovered, smiling at the shocked, awed expression on her face when I grazed my thumbs over those peaks. “Pink and hard, and so damn sweet.” She moaned, the sound louder, breathless when I took one nipple between my thumb and forefinger. The sensations rose up then, her voice like a melody, those raspy intakes of breath heady, shooting straight to my chest, speeding my heart. “That feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah…yes.” And the rasp in her voice only caught, became breathless when I rolled the nipple with a little more pressure. “God I’m…”
I caught the signs, knew what she wanted, knew that she was scared, still nervous around me, but that she was ready to fall. She gripped her inner thigh, tugging on her loose skirt and I couldn’t help but grin, knowing she was just on the edge of having what she wanted. She was right there and I’d gladly see her off that cliff.
“Touch yourself if you need to.” Red’s quick glance, her widened eyes and the return of her blush pulled a small laugh from me. “You don’t need to worry about me, sweetheart. Nothing you do leaves this room. On my hon…” No. I couldn’t say that. I had no honor. Not anymore. I wanted it back, I wanted to earn it, but it wasn’t mine, not yet. “I promise.”
“I don’t know…how.”
“I’ll show you.” I was careful to watch her face, gage her reactions, see if she’d change her mind, but my fingers on her skirt, pulling it off, then slipping down her too sweet, too girly cotton panties did nothing to make her stop me. “Relax. Just take a breath.” And she tried, nodded again but dug her fingers into my sheets as though she needed some grip to keep gravity in check, like she couldn’t manage to trust touching herself. It was fine. I’d do it for her.
She was pink everywhere. Pink and wet and pulsing like a grape on the vine, full and ready for the taking. This wouldn’t take long, I knew that. This girl was hungry for something she couldn’t quite reach. Something she probably didn’t even understand. So I was gentle as I lowered over her, as I undressed her completely, separated her folds with my big fingers and brushed my tongue against that swollen clit. I thought she probably felt my smile against her * when I watched her, when the flush on her skin and those panting breaths made her skin glow. God, she looked beautiful. Ready to burst. “Is that good?”
“So…so good. God…”
“This is better.” Red bucked against my fingers when I slipped them inside, feeling the searing heat, the tight, tight muscles that wrapped around my fingers. Those smells, the feel of her, the wetness, the hiss of her throaty voice when she groaned, it was like a slice to my chest, feeling all of this at once, knowing I could only taste, could only touch.
My penance. My punishment for taking something that had never been mine.
“Ransom…oh…what…Oh!”
My fingers dipping deeper, tongue flicking fast, Red only became wetter and she dug her fingers so hard against my sheets that her knuckles turned white. “Squeeze my fingers.” And she did, tight, her inner muscles greedily gripping around my fingers and then the memory came back, like it always did. That small body, that sweet, sweet taste, the first I’d ever had.
The way she’d call my name, how she’d tasted on my tongue. That memory crippled me. Every damn time. The memory stung, but I opened up and let it in, taking that pain, cradling it—Emily’s tight, wet body gripping my fingers, pulsing against me. How fascinated I’d been by her reactions, by how responsive she was. I had felt like a god. I’d felt powerful and strong and so very astounded that it was me, the clumsy, senseless sixteen year old that made Emily writhe against my fingers. Me that had her pulling at my hair, pushing me deeper into her body. Me that she loved.
The same me who had wrecked everything.
Red’s climax was hard and I took her scream, her arching, quaking body, her pulsing wetness, and let her ride it out with my fingers still deep inside of her. Then I slowly slipped out of her drenched *, and laid my hand flat on her mound, helping her to ease down. Once she was calm I took the opportunity to dry my face, to scrub my palms into my eyes, hoping that the memory of Emily would fade; hoping that her face, her taste, would finally be erased by the girl lying next to me.
But she always came back, my girl, my favorite redhead. Her voice, her touch, the smell of Emily’s hair was embedded into my skin, every recall of her, every devastating memory was part of my body, ran deeper than my cells.
There was no erasing her.
Maybe it was the red hair. Maybe it was the freckles, but for the hundredth time it seemed, touching another girl, tasting someone else’s body, hadn’t managed to pull Emily from my thoughts.
I didn’t think anyone ever would.