Authors: Stacey Kade
“Amanda,” I try.
“Yessss,” she says against my lip. I’m going to lose my mind.
“You can’t, uh … me on top of you is bad, right?” I’m struggling to get words out in the right order.
She tenses slightly, and that helps me collect my thoughts a little.
“It’s okay,” I whisper against the skin at her chest. “I just want to try something different. But if it’s too much or it’s not good, you just need to say.” And I will hobble as fast as I can for the coldest shower known to man.
She blinks at me, her eyes made darker by heat and want. Her lips are reddened from kissing, and the sight sends a primal thrill through me.
Then she nods.
“Come closer,” I say hoarsely.
She’s already pressed against me at the chest, but her lower body is angled slightly away. At my direction, she inches forward on her knees until they’re pressed against my leg.
I slide my hand down her hip to behind her knee. “Trust me?”
She nods again, a swift, decisive confirmation.
I tug gently until she lifts her knee and then I swing her toward me until she’s straddling my thighs.
She’s not even sitting on me but just the sight of her above me is so fucking hot. I want her naked and riding me, her hair loose against my skin.
“Okay?” I manage.
“Yes.” The word barely escapes from her mouth before she’s leaning over me, her tongue plunging in my mouth, tangling with mine. After a second, she changes the angle, lowering herself to rest her weight on my legs, lightly though, as if she’s still not sure.
I resist the urge to tug her into me. I want to grind against her, feel her damp heat even with our clothes in the way.
Instead, I stroke her back, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath her shirt,
my
shirt. And when the fabric rucks up beneath my palm, my fingers slip across bare skin at her waist.
Her breath catches, escaping in the smallest of moans.
“Okay?” I ask again.
Her response is to inch her way forward into my lap, but we’re not pressed together yet, and I think I’m going to die if I can’t push against her, feel her rubbing on me.
But I’m determined to keep myself in check.
Then her mouth moves along my jaw. “I like the way you taste,” she breathes against me. Right before her teeth tease my skin.
Instinct kicks in, and my hands tighten on her waist, pulling her into me as my hips thrust up.
“Chase!” She exhales my name in a sharp breath, and I’m already fumbling to lift her away.
But then she rolls forward into me instead, and I feel like crying, it feels so damn good. Even with the stupid button fly. I lift my hips to push back against her—I want inside so bad—and she rocks with me, leaving kisses across my forehead and down my temples.
I fumble for the buttons of her shirt, pressing my mouth against every inch of exposed skin.
Her bra is a pale purple with a shiny silky edge that begs to be touched. Her nipples are already budding beneath it, and the sight of them makes my mouth open in anticipation.
But when I cup her breast, running my thumb over the growing hardness of her nipple, she stiffens.
It’s subtle, not a jerk away from me, but a sudden tension that wasn’t there before.
I retreat immediately. “Not good?”
Her gaze darts away from mine. “No.”
“Too much or just not that?” I ask. Communication is the only way I’m not going to screw this up.
“Just not that.” She folds her arms across her chest.
“Hey,” I say and wait until she looks at me. “It’s okay.” I hold her gaze so she knows I mean it. “I just want to understand what makes you feel good and what doesn’t. Talk to me?”
I shift a little beneath her, trying to give us some breathing—and thinking—room.
She hesitates, biting her lip for a moment, then releasing it in a slow slide. “Your mouth is okay,” she says, a gorgeous blush spreading across the pale skin of her chest and up into her neck. “I liked you kissing me there. But hands grabbing, I can’t…”
“Okay, no, that’s all I need to know.” I rest my hand at the back of her neck, caressing the tight muscles there until she relaxes.
When she bends her head to bring her mouth to mine, I keep my hands solidly on her legs, making no move toward her chest or any move at all, for that matter.
After a minute or so, the stiffness leaches from her body and she’s warm and soft in my arms again, leaning into me.
“Will you take your bra off for me?” I ask, the words thick in my throat. “My hands won’t go anywhere near, I promise.” Then a thought occurs belatedly. “Unless that’s not—”
“No, that’s … I can.”
I watch with greedy eyes as she reaches behind herself, unfastening the clip.
The material slackens, the cups gape away from her body, but they’re still hiding her. She hesitates, shy for just a second, before pulling it down.
Her tits are as perfect as I imagined, pale-skinned handfuls with pink nipples that are begging to be tasted. They’re shaking slightly with her heartbeat and accelerated breathing.
“You are beautiful,” I say, my voice a grating mess.
She smiles at that but ducks her head down as she works the strap off one arm and then the other, leaving her shirt in place, which is only hotter.
When she looks up, I lock my gaze with hers, to be sure I’m not missing a change in her expression, then I lean forward and extend my tongue to lick one hardened nipple.
She moans.
Her hands run through my hair, and then she’s pressing me tighter against her breast.
I take as much of her breast into my mouth as I can, sucking her until she’s whispering nothing but my name and “yes,” over and over again.
I release one nipple, leaving it reddened and wet from my mouth, which is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and move to the other.
She grinds hard against me, then pauses, tilting her head over mine to whisper in my ear, “Can you take off your shirt?”
I release her breast with one final pull, and she whimpers, riding me harder.
But I lean away, yanking at my collar.
Being skin to skin is an irresistible siren song of an idea.
She backs off a little, her eyes wide as she takes in my chest and shoulders. And watching her watch me, her shirt gaping open to reveal her breasts, her mouth a soft pink O, makes my cock twitch eagerly in my jeans.
Her hands slide over my pecs and down, lingering near my hips and abdomen. “What are these muscles called?” she asks, trailing a teasing finger over the area in question.
“Um, obliques, I think,” I manage, fighting the temptation to put her hand on my hard-on.
“I like them.” She gives me a saucy grin.
“Yeah?” My head is spinning. Somehow I’ve lost control over this situation, leaving her in charge, and that’s more than fine.
Before I can blink, she’s bent down to press her mouth against the muscles she “likes,” laying her tongue against them like a benediction, and my eyes are rolling back in my head.
I grab her arms and haul her up, thrusting my tongue into the damp cavern of her mouth. Her breasts are wet peaks against my chest, and the friction feels so good. We’re moving in a steady rhythm now, her breath coming faster.
But I’m not sure if I can hold out, not like this.
I kiss her hard one more time, sucking her tongue into my mouth before leaning back.
“Can we … I need to move, do something else or this is going to be over too soon,” I say in a strained voice. I haven’t so much as touched her clit or slid my fingers inside her, and I want to make her feel good, if she’ll let me. “Same rules as before.”
With a smile reeking of female pride, she leans forward and bites my lower lip, growing bolder by the second. “What do you have in mind?”
“Stand,” I say.
She slides off me, and I shift on the couch, lying on my side and stretching my legs out until my feet press against the armrest on the opposite side.
Hesitation flashes across her face.
“You’re on the outside, no weight on top of you, and you can pull away at any time,” I point out calmly. But I’m not going to talk her into it. If she doesn’t want to, we’ll find another way.
But after a moment, she edges to the couch, kneeling next to me first, then stretching out beside me. “Hi,” she whispers, resting her palm against my chest, before leaning in to kiss my skin above her fingers.
I’m such a fucking goner. I just hope I don’t embarrass myself.
Amanda
I’m not sure about this. But lying next to Chase voluntarily isn’t nearly the same as being pressed down against my will, which is what triggers panic in me.
And right now, the level in my head has the bubble firmly in the green-go zone. So, okay.
I miss moving with him, though. It felt like it was building to something. But it wasn’t scary, at all, to my surprise. Just exciting, with a level of safety preserved. Like heat lightning in the distance.
But this, this has the potential to bring that lightning much closer, which makes my heart trip in my chest with both anticipation and nerves.
Seemingly sensing that, he caresses my cheek and leans in to kiss me softly, no tongue, just lips and gentleness.
I lift my hands to the back of his neck to press him closer, to deepen the kiss. But he holds off.
His hand drifts to my hip and then lower, his fingers alighting for a brief second at the hot spot of sensation between my legs. Just that fractional touch makes me wiggle toward him.
“I want to touch you here, my hand against your skin,” he says, watching my reaction carefully. He’s been so attentive, I feel almost guilty, doing all the taking and virtually no giving. Not that it seems to bother him. “I want to make you feel good.”
The idea of his hand between my legs sends a bolt of want through me, followed immediately by uncertainty. I honestly don’t know. Will it be … clinical, uncomfortable? That’s been my only experience with that action.
I decide to follow the lust, and besides, nothing he’s done so far has felt even remotely distant or cold, or like a violation. And if I don’t like it, I trust him to stop.
I trust him. The sentiment is solid, throbbing in my chest like my heartbeat, no shadow of doubt or hesitation.
I clear my throat. “Yes.”
He exhales shakily and kisses me, his tongue delving into my mouth until I’m clutching at him, arching awkwardly against him.
“Put your knee up on my hip,” he whispers in my ear, his mouth grazing my cheek in an open-mouthed caress.
I do, and for a split second, the feeling of being vulnerable chases away the heat and desire.
But then his fingers graze my leg, stroking the hollow where my thigh meets my body, and that feeling of vulnerability disappears under the chant of
more, more, more
in my head.
He braces himself on one elbow, and I feel him pull aside the layers of material between us, and the slightly cooler air touches my overheated flesh.
The first touch, just the backs of his fingers, pressing lightly, sends a jolt through me, and I’m pushing into him, the reaction automatic and instinctive.
He groans softly. “You are so wet.”
I might have been embarrassed by the frank statement of my condition, but my heart is throbbing in my chest, like an overinflated balloon about to pop.
Then he turns his wrist, and his fingers skate over the damp and aching flesh. His fingertip presses lightly against the tight bud of sensation at the top of me while the rest of his fingers slip through the wetness, parting me, holding me open to his touch.
I squirm against the sensation. It’s not the same as rubbing against him—this is more focused and in that way more torturous but good.
“So soft,” he whispers. “You’re so soft and wet, and I…” His words cut off in a groan, as he drops his head, his jaw muscles clenching visibly beneath his skin.
His touch remains gentle but persistent, though, and soon I’m writhing against him, wanting something more. Instinct tells me to close my legs over his hand so I can keep that pressure there, just so.
But then he lifts his head to kiss me, his hand between my legs stilling, much to my frustration.
I move my hips toward him. “Don’t stop,” I plead. My whole being is encompassed in this moment, in his touch.
That’s when I realize one of his fingers is resting at my entrance, pressing lightly but not quite penetrating.
He hasn’t stopped; he’s asking a question.
But then he goes further. “What do you want, Amanda?”
I blink up at him. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes are dark with want. Chase Henry Mroczek is watching me like I hold the answer to everything he wants, to the whole universe.
He told me that I would know what I wanted and that I would ask him for it. And he was right.
The idea of saying the words out loud sends a brief flash of self-consciousness through me, but the embarrassment is a feather compared to the weight of want in me right now.
“I want you inside,” I say, holding his gaze steadily, despite the creeping heat in my face. “I want you to put your finger inside me.”
His nostrils flare as he bends forward, his mouth hot and open on mine. Then he gives a shuddering breath that I feel against my cheek, as his finger slides in.
Reflexively I tense up, expecting pain or at least the sense of being invaded.
He stops immediately. “Amanda?”
“Just getting used to it,” I say quickly.
Which is true. It doesn’t hurt. It just feels different. There’s no painful or invading sensation; his finger is just a warm, persistent but not unpleasant presence inside me. It sends a shiver through me. He is in me. Part of him is inside me. And I
like
it.
He holds his hand steady against me, not thrusting or pushing, his warm palm cupping between my legs.
Then he ducks his head and nudges the edge of my shirt aside with his chin and cheek to trail his kisses along the top of my breast.
The rasp of his stubble against my skin makes me ache. Then his hot wet tongue laps against my nipple before he closes his mouth over it and sucks.