Intrusion (11 page)

“Thank you,” he murmurs into my hair, and the words are such a shock I come close to stopping what I'm doing. I even turn my head and look right at him, sure I will see some kind of explanation there. It will be in his eyes, I think.

Only his eyes are still closed.

His eyes are closed, just like I asked. All this time, all this heat between us, and he stuck to my one request—though that isn't even the best part. No, he saves that for last. He waits until I'm so on the edge I could stick out my tongue and taste it, and then he tells me exactly what he's grateful for.

“Thank you for telling me to talk like this. For telling me to be detached—you have no idea how good this is for me. How good it feels to just say these words and hear you and know that you like this,” he says, and I answer in kind.

I give him everything I've got—including the sight of me like this.

“I do, good God, I do. Look at me, and see for yourself. See all the things you do to me just by being you,” I say, and when he does just that everything breaks open inside me.

He sets that heated gaze on me, and I do what I've never been able to before:

I come, without a single stroke over my clit.

Chapter Seven

H
E GETS MORE
daring after that. Not by much at first, but enough to make everything just that little bit more electric. His hand might brush my ass when we kiss, and he has absolutely no problem telling me to touch myself when I get to that overheated point. I even suspect he's starting to like it. That this is a nice, safe space for him to have some kind of sexual experience. He drives me to the brink of insanity. . .

And then I just take the edge off, while he watches.

Because he does watch now. I can tell that his eyes are open for himself, as much as they are for me. The idea of someone looking at me as I do the lewdest thing possible is starting to excite me, and the more it excites me the better he seems to enjoy it. He makes comments without prompting, and sometimes his voice doesn't seem so detached.

Or is that just my imagination? Mostly I think it must be—I'm in no fit state to judge by the time he starts talking. Sometimes, I feel like my skin is about to burn off my body. My face gets so red and so flushed I could almost call the cause embarrassment.

If it didn't feel so good at the same time.

Everything feels good with him. Even his most innocuous offers make me shiver—like the offer to let me lean against him while I stroke my clit. “Just lie back,” he says, and I do. “Just let yourself relax,” he says, and I do that, too.

“Take your panties down,” he says.

Though he really doesn't have to. The moment the words are out they practically melt right off me. I freeze in the middle of what I'm doing—just sort of barely stroking underneath the material, primed from a kiss that had a lot of tongue and a ton of moaning in among it—and try to think. I need to get my mind in order, because seriously. Did he just say that?

Of course, I can tell he likes to direct me a little. But usually the direction is aimed at making it better for me. It skirts the edge of whatever he might want, never quite crossing that line. Most of the time, it seems like he never wants anything at all—but this, this, this. It means he wants to see, right?

He knows I kind of like to be covered up, to hide myself just a little—even from my own eyes. But somehow he seems to be asking anyway.

So what should I think here?

Apart from,
oh my God, that is the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me
?

And then he goes and says it
again
.

“Take them down,” he says. “And open your legs a little.”

I swear, I come so close to looking at him. The urge is enormous—I would kill to see the look on his face right now. But I fear that any slight movement might break this spell, and I don't want it to. I don't care why he wants me to do this. No long-held streak of shame is standing in my way. How could it possibly when he asks for so little and gives so much?

When I feel so safe, lying here in his arms?

Not to mention how arousing it is to ease those little cotton things down over my thighs. Suddenly I'm seventeen again, trembling and terrified, standing on the brink of something I'm sure will be so amazing. That newfound thrill is back, and it makes my breath hitch. I fumble with the elastic and shake at the thought, and when I'm done my legs don't really want to part.

But I part them anyway.

And I look, even though I've never looked before. I see how wet I am and how swollen, my clit like a taut little bead between soft, flushed folds. Nothing horrible about it, or shameful in any way—on the contrary. The sight makes me shiver, and I get this good hot bloom in my lower belly, and when he strokes the back of his hand over my cheek, I do something I would never have dared to before.

I kiss his fingers. I
lick
his fingers—which seems like way too much for me. As soon as I realize what I've done, I expect him to pull back or put a stop to things. He did the other night when the kissing got a little too much, and his hand strayed kind of close to my backside. But this time he doesn't.

He lets me do it.

More than that, in fact.

“Bite down,” he tells me, the request so sudden and so strange that I do a double take. I even turn my head to ask—or maybe give him an incredulous look—and stop short only when he gets there before me. He reiterates in no uncertain terms, with a little added extra just to make sure I understand.

“Sink your teeth in while you stroke yourself,” he says.

How could I possibly misinterpret? He even turns his hand so I know where he means, and the moment I do it I know what he really meant. He wasn't trying to please me.

He was trying to please himself.

He was obviously and completely trying to please himself. I can tell by the way he reacts—I bite and he kisses the side of my face in a manner completely unlike him. His mouth is all open and hot and greedy, and the hand he has on my waist definitely seems to move up a little. Some might even categorize it as groping the underside of my right breast.

Though I try not to. It seems better not to get my hopes up, considering they're already sky-high. He's kissing me and saying things, and my hand is between my legs. . .what more do I need? Nothing, nothing, and yet when I bite down again I get why I'm doing it.

I want to see what happens.

I want to see if that hand will move up a little farther, if his guard will drop down another level, though it shocks me to feel him actually do it. To hear him sigh against the side of my face and just ever so slightly cup my breast with that one big hand. . .

It makes me wild. Suddenly I can't seem to stroke myself fast enough, and my hips don't want to stay still. He doesn't even have to tell me to fuck my pussy—I do it all on my own. I slide two fingers in as deep as they will go, and rock against that delicious pressure. I do myself the way I want him to do me.

And in my most excited moments, I come close to telling him that. I think of filthy ways to ask and words that I could never actually say to him—like
use
and
cock
and
fill me
. I think of him coming inside me, making me sticky and wet, and all over the barest touch I've ever had on my body.

I still have most of my clothes on. He doesn't even graze my stiff nipple.

Yet somehow, I'm at this delirious point where all my boundaries suddenly don't exist. Thinking of him making a mess of me is really the least of my wild fantasies. I imagine his tongue where my finger is, making slippery circles around my stiff clit. And when he gets a hold of my face, when he kisses me as the pleasure reaches some terrible crisis, I see myself doing the same to him.

I kiss him, and kiss him, and think about sucking his cock.

But can I really be blamed when he asks me things like, “Are you going to come?” He even looks me right in the eye as he says it, watching me in that assessing way of his, waiting for some spark of telling pleasure. The second it hits he will know, I think—and I'm right.

“That's it, that's it—go on, honey, take it, take it,” he says, at the exact moment I feel my orgasm start to bloom low down in my belly. Then just as it really takes hold—as every muscle in my body tenses and a thousand trapped moans and sighs press up against my gritted teeth—he does the thing that always pushes me higher.

He puts his hand over mine. He presses my slippery fingers over my clit, just as the pleasure gets kind of scary and I want to pull away. In truth, I'm desperate to pull away—any more of this and I'm going to make some really awful noises.

Never mind screaming—I need to grunt.

But he keeps it going. He carries on until I'm almost sobbing, drenched in sweat and near delirious, each thick pulse of pleasure so intense I want to tell him to stop. Instead, I find myself begging him to carry on. I babble about how good he makes me feel and how much I like this, always edging closer to words I know I shouldn't say.

What difference will it make if I do? He knows he can have me if he wants to. He can see how much I want to—so no offer is going to tempt him. He's incapable of being tempted, if this isn't enough to put him over the edge. I was practically a nun before I met him and look at me now: legs spread, pussy all glistening with my excitement, body arched as though someone just fucked into me.

No, no. . .he will never, he won't, he can't, I think.

And then just as I'm sure—that's when I feel it.

I feel his hard cock against the curve of my ass.

I
PROMISE MYSELF
I won't try testing any theories out. Yet the second he kisses me goodnight sometime around eleven the next night I just want to go for it. He had an erection, I know he did, and if he had one that means I did something to make it happen. Or he did something to make it happen. Maybe both of us together made it happen, in which case I simply have to find the right combination and I could give him some of the same things he's given me.

He makes me feel so sexually free. Not to mention satisfied.

And if all I have to do to help him is maybe bite him a little bit. . .well, I can do that. Of course I have no idea if the bite was the reason. The only thing that makes me think so was that urgency in his voice and the memory of his reaction. Neither is evidence of anything.

But I can't see any harm in trying.

He kisses me, I turn my head a little and just. . .nip him a little. Just enough to get a reaction, if he's willing to offer one. And to my great delight and overwhelming excitement, he is. He doesn't even hesitate or shift gears slowly. His hand immediately goes to that danger area it was in the other day—right on the underside of my left breast.

Maybe even squeezing it a little, if I'm being completely honest.

Though that isn't what excites me exactly. I don't flush hot and fire up for the cupping of it or the sense that he kind of wants to try me out—maybe get a little taste of my plump tits so he can consider them later. No, no, it's the
heat
that rolls off him. The fever he seems to descend into. I graze him with my teeth and his lips part, his lids lower, most of him goes all loose and lax.

I want to call it something silly, like
horniness
.

Yet somehow, it doesn't seem silly at all to do so. A great gush of sensation goes through me the second I think of it.
Horny
, I think,
eager
, I think, like some teenage boy suddenly set free, and my pussy swells against my already damp panties. My clit jerks, as though he has a little string around it and just tugged, hard.

Really, it's no wonder I pant his name. Or rub myself against him. Or go straight from mild kissing to wild moaning in under thirty seconds. I think somewhere in there I call him
baby
, which seems completely at odds with everything he is.

But it feels good to do it.

And he appears to have no objections. On the contrary—as soon as the word is out he goes up another level. He claims my mouth with his, and when even that isn't enough he pushes me back.
He pushes me back onto the bed and puts my arms above my head
.

Not in a forceful way, you understand. He kind of laces his fingers with mine and shifts almost as though the whole thing is a mistake. But I feel it all the same. I know it for what it is. He wants to get as close to the moves as possible, without really doing them at all. Tiny little rolls of his hips that echo the wild hump of a good fuck. Hands together the way that every limb on our bodies probably would be, if we went for it.

And that hot, wet mouth.

God, does he know how hot and wet his mouth his? How soft those lips are, with just that background hint of his thick stubble. . .

That alone would be enough.

But then I feel it, oh, fuck, I feel it against my thigh. So thick and hard and completely unmistakable. He definitely has an erection, and, good Lord, that knowledge is so much more intense than I thought it would be. I was sure I processed it the other day, but now I know I didn't at all. I still imagined it might be nothing.

I still thought he couldn't, or wouldn't, or that it was just wishful thinking.

And as soon as I have conclusive evidence I go all still. I pause midkiss, doing my best not to rub or press at that solid shape but wanting to more than I've ever wanted anything in my entire life. The very idea of doing it gets me groaning. I say his name and it comes out with twenty syllables, and when I pull back just a little way and see it. . .

That's the moment I lose the rest of my control.

I mean, obviously I try to hold on to myself. I kind of look without really looking, so he won't be made uncomfortable by my goggling eyes. And I don't loudly exclaim, or start asking a bunch of awkward questions, or tear his pants off immediately and hump him into oblivion. But I can't deny how intense the urge is to do all of those things.