Love in Lingerie
Page 33
The light from the fire makes him glow, a god with strong shoulders and muscular arms that pin me down as his gorgeous profile bends over me, worshiping my pussy with his tongue, his jaw flexing, the soft movement of his tongue tasting me in ways that are destroying my thoughts, my resolve, my sanity. God, all of the things I have envisioned, all of the talents I have imagined—every time that tongue peeked out of his mouth, every time I caught a glimpse of it—all my fantasies have fallen short to this, the look of him, the feel of him. He pushes his tongue inside of me and all thought stops, his fingers digging into the cheeks of my ass, his mouth as aggressive as his touch. I don’t need to wonder how I taste, or if he is enjoying this. I close my eyes, release every inhibition, and let his tongue destroy my senses.
When I come, it is the kind of orgasm that changes lives. The kind where my nails scrape his scalp, my feet flex through the open air, and my scream is so loud it is silent. I scramble for footing, for reality, and in the hundredth call of his name, I tell him I love him.
He pulls me to the floor, my limbs loose and free, and I watch as he removes his underwear, his cock bobbing free.
Good Lord. And I thought he was sexy before.
I reach for him, and he lifts and positions me carefully on the floor. “Are you comfortable?” he asks, and I nod, his rug the impossibly soft type that you want to burrow into, one I have spent nights on before, but always in pajamas and never like this—never with the firelight flickering off his torso as he crawls above me, his mouth dropping to mine, and we kiss, this one different than the first, this one gentle and sweet, him tasting slightly of chocolate, each meeting of our tongues stirring my arousal, waking up my limbs, and I prop myself up on my elbows and reach for his neck, the drug of my orgasm wearing off, my body needing another hit.
Our tempo increases, layers of control shed as I tug at his head, our kiss deepening, his hips lowering. I wrap my legs around him, and a groan rumbles against my mouth, his bare cock hard against his stomach, and when he drags it over my damp panties, my sensitive clit, I gasp against his kiss. He pushes off his hands and sits back on his heels. In one quick movement, he grabs my legs and pulls me flush against his thighs, his hands reaching forward, and gripping the open neck of my flannel shirt, buttons popping and threads ripping.
A growl tears from his throat when he sees the matching balconet bra, the one from last season, his eyes scanning over my chest. He slides his palms up my stomach and over the swell of the sheer cups, all lace and underwire, his hands squeezing, fingers pulling at the top of it. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, and it is a moment of calm, a moment where his gaze drags over me, from knee to face, and our eyes meet and I’ve never felt so safe, so cherished, so beautiful. He swallows, and there is a catch to his words when he speaks. “I’ve always worn a condom. Every time. Always.” His eyes drop, and I tighten my legs at the vulnerability that crosses his face. “But with you, I can’t—I mean, I can, if it would make you—”
“I trust you.” My eyes drop to his cock and I can’t believe I’m actually seeing it, the most private piece of him, the beauty of its thick shaft, its lines and cuts, the twitch of it as I watch. I wet my lips. “Please. I need you.”
He hisses out a breath and reaches down, moving aside my panties, my body lifting slightly off the floor, and I’ve never been so eager before, never been so needy for something in my life. I lift my body to meet his, and when he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, his eyes flick up to meet mine, a silent question coming from those dark depths. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.” The hand on my panties moves, and my breath catches as something—his thumb—pushes inside. He swears, and suddenly, there is a break in his control, his hips thrusting forward, hand moving aside and I come up off the rug at the feel of him pushing, bare and thick, inside of me.
God, the slick, hard feel of him. The way he falls over me, his hands holding him up, breath jagged, hips pumping. He moves slowly, the first thrust difficult, the second easier, the third smooth and wet, a soft hiss leaving his mouth. I can feel his restraint, the careful way he slides above me, each stroke full and deep, then slow as he pulls out. Each movement gives me all of him, each retreat has my body craving. I claw at his back and beg him for more, and when he looks down into my face—I almost come apart.
It’s him. It’s Trey. It’s his gorgeous face, that tight scowl when he is concentrating on something, the familiar burn in his eyes when he is aroused, the look I’ve always moved away from, always avoided. Now, it’s more than a burn; it’s a fire, his eyes devouring me, something so fiercely vulnerable in them, a look I recognize because I feel it—the terrifying realization that everything I’ve ever wanted is happening right now. Trey, my Trey, his mouth lowering to mine. His lips softly opening, his tongue against mine, my name a reverent whisper from his lips. His voice is thick when he tells me how incredibly fantastic I feel, when he tells me that he has wanted this for so long. Suddenly, he pauses, only the tip of him inside me, and my legs quake, and I curve my hips up for more, but he keeps me at bay, and there is the flash of his playful smile before it is gone, and he is all business, sitting back on his heels, his hand wrapping around the base of him as he pulls it out and gently, slowly, drags it over the top of me, my clit all but swooning from the slick feel of his head. “Tell me you love me,” he commands.
“I love you.” There is no hesitation in my words, only the hitch of breath right after, at the moment when he drops his cock and yanks at my panties, his strong hands shredding the fine lace, the ripping sound so raw and unrestrained, a slice of dirty pleasure sliding through me when he leaves the ruined fabric on my stomach. His hands move to my inner thighs, holding them open, holding me open, and he uses just his hips to guide the motion of his stiff shaft, his cock thrusting back and forth across the open spread of me, his grip keeping me in place, and I tremble at the hot, hard feel of him, slick from my juices, rolling with perfect pressure along my clit.
“Tell me that I am the only man for you.” He lifts his head and meets my eyes.
“You are.” It’s true. He has been since the day I walked into his building, since I had to move my desk just to concentrate on my work. Since I broke up with Craig in Hong Kong, since my heart hammered in my chest when Stephen told me that Trey wanted to fuck me. He has been the only man for me since the moment he uttered my name.
“Do you know—” His hands tighten on my thighs, and I move up on my elbows, needing to be closer to him, needing to see the hard length of him against my skin, the way he pushes it along my slit, my lips spreading a little around him. He looks so impossibly big, so masculine, so thick and virile, his strong hands biting into the soft skin of my inner thighs, the hard ridges of his stomach as those muscular thighs flex. “Do you know how fucking insane it made me to see you date other men?”
I look up at the growl in his voice, a shiver of illicit pleasure shooting through me at the possession in his eyes. “Did it?” Oh, I know. I know how it felt when his lips had lowered to Chelsea’s bare shoulder. I know how, when I’d straddled Stephen later that night, all I could think about was Trey’s mouth against her ear, his hand under the table, our eyes meeting for a moment across a linen tablecloth and menus.
“I used to fake phone calls so that I could leave the room and be alone, get away from you.” He quickens his hips, a swear rolling off his dirty mouth as he glances between our bodies for a moment, then looks back at me. “I would go into a bathroom stall and jack off my cock, imagining that you would follow me in there, and drop down on your knees.” He pushes on my chest, and I move my elbows, lying back on the rug, my legs dropping as he moves up my body, his stiff cock bobbing over my bra, brushing against my throat, and then he is leaning over me, his cock at my mouth, and I open it, my tongue against the tip of it. I reach for it, and he grabs my hand with one of his and pulls it above my head. “Unclasp your bra and then give me your other hand,” he orders, his eyes on mine.
When I come, it is the kind of orgasm that changes lives. The kind where my nails scrape his scalp, my feet flex through the open air, and my scream is so loud it is silent. I scramble for footing, for reality, and in the hundredth call of his name, I tell him I love him.
He pulls me to the floor, my limbs loose and free, and I watch as he removes his underwear, his cock bobbing free.
Good Lord. And I thought he was sexy before.
I reach for him, and he lifts and positions me carefully on the floor. “Are you comfortable?” he asks, and I nod, his rug the impossibly soft type that you want to burrow into, one I have spent nights on before, but always in pajamas and never like this—never with the firelight flickering off his torso as he crawls above me, his mouth dropping to mine, and we kiss, this one different than the first, this one gentle and sweet, him tasting slightly of chocolate, each meeting of our tongues stirring my arousal, waking up my limbs, and I prop myself up on my elbows and reach for his neck, the drug of my orgasm wearing off, my body needing another hit.
Our tempo increases, layers of control shed as I tug at his head, our kiss deepening, his hips lowering. I wrap my legs around him, and a groan rumbles against my mouth, his bare cock hard against his stomach, and when he drags it over my damp panties, my sensitive clit, I gasp against his kiss. He pushes off his hands and sits back on his heels. In one quick movement, he grabs my legs and pulls me flush against his thighs, his hands reaching forward, and gripping the open neck of my flannel shirt, buttons popping and threads ripping.
A growl tears from his throat when he sees the matching balconet bra, the one from last season, his eyes scanning over my chest. He slides his palms up my stomach and over the swell of the sheer cups, all lace and underwire, his hands squeezing, fingers pulling at the top of it. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, and it is a moment of calm, a moment where his gaze drags over me, from knee to face, and our eyes meet and I’ve never felt so safe, so cherished, so beautiful. He swallows, and there is a catch to his words when he speaks. “I’ve always worn a condom. Every time. Always.” His eyes drop, and I tighten my legs at the vulnerability that crosses his face. “But with you, I can’t—I mean, I can, if it would make you—”
“I trust you.” My eyes drop to his cock and I can’t believe I’m actually seeing it, the most private piece of him, the beauty of its thick shaft, its lines and cuts, the twitch of it as I watch. I wet my lips. “Please. I need you.”
He hisses out a breath and reaches down, moving aside my panties, my body lifting slightly off the floor, and I’ve never been so eager before, never been so needy for something in my life. I lift my body to meet his, and when he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, his eyes flick up to meet mine, a silent question coming from those dark depths. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.” The hand on my panties moves, and my breath catches as something—his thumb—pushes inside. He swears, and suddenly, there is a break in his control, his hips thrusting forward, hand moving aside and I come up off the rug at the feel of him pushing, bare and thick, inside of me.
God, the slick, hard feel of him. The way he falls over me, his hands holding him up, breath jagged, hips pumping. He moves slowly, the first thrust difficult, the second easier, the third smooth and wet, a soft hiss leaving his mouth. I can feel his restraint, the careful way he slides above me, each stroke full and deep, then slow as he pulls out. Each movement gives me all of him, each retreat has my body craving. I claw at his back and beg him for more, and when he looks down into my face—I almost come apart.
It’s him. It’s Trey. It’s his gorgeous face, that tight scowl when he is concentrating on something, the familiar burn in his eyes when he is aroused, the look I’ve always moved away from, always avoided. Now, it’s more than a burn; it’s a fire, his eyes devouring me, something so fiercely vulnerable in them, a look I recognize because I feel it—the terrifying realization that everything I’ve ever wanted is happening right now. Trey, my Trey, his mouth lowering to mine. His lips softly opening, his tongue against mine, my name a reverent whisper from his lips. His voice is thick when he tells me how incredibly fantastic I feel, when he tells me that he has wanted this for so long. Suddenly, he pauses, only the tip of him inside me, and my legs quake, and I curve my hips up for more, but he keeps me at bay, and there is the flash of his playful smile before it is gone, and he is all business, sitting back on his heels, his hand wrapping around the base of him as he pulls it out and gently, slowly, drags it over the top of me, my clit all but swooning from the slick feel of his head. “Tell me you love me,” he commands.
“I love you.” There is no hesitation in my words, only the hitch of breath right after, at the moment when he drops his cock and yanks at my panties, his strong hands shredding the fine lace, the ripping sound so raw and unrestrained, a slice of dirty pleasure sliding through me when he leaves the ruined fabric on my stomach. His hands move to my inner thighs, holding them open, holding me open, and he uses just his hips to guide the motion of his stiff shaft, his cock thrusting back and forth across the open spread of me, his grip keeping me in place, and I tremble at the hot, hard feel of him, slick from my juices, rolling with perfect pressure along my clit.
“Tell me that I am the only man for you.” He lifts his head and meets my eyes.
“You are.” It’s true. He has been since the day I walked into his building, since I had to move my desk just to concentrate on my work. Since I broke up with Craig in Hong Kong, since my heart hammered in my chest when Stephen told me that Trey wanted to fuck me. He has been the only man for me since the moment he uttered my name.
“Do you know—” His hands tighten on my thighs, and I move up on my elbows, needing to be closer to him, needing to see the hard length of him against my skin, the way he pushes it along my slit, my lips spreading a little around him. He looks so impossibly big, so masculine, so thick and virile, his strong hands biting into the soft skin of my inner thighs, the hard ridges of his stomach as those muscular thighs flex. “Do you know how fucking insane it made me to see you date other men?”
I look up at the growl in his voice, a shiver of illicit pleasure shooting through me at the possession in his eyes. “Did it?” Oh, I know. I know how it felt when his lips had lowered to Chelsea’s bare shoulder. I know how, when I’d straddled Stephen later that night, all I could think about was Trey’s mouth against her ear, his hand under the table, our eyes meeting for a moment across a linen tablecloth and menus.
“I used to fake phone calls so that I could leave the room and be alone, get away from you.” He quickens his hips, a swear rolling off his dirty mouth as he glances between our bodies for a moment, then looks back at me. “I would go into a bathroom stall and jack off my cock, imagining that you would follow me in there, and drop down on your knees.” He pushes on my chest, and I move my elbows, lying back on the rug, my legs dropping as he moves up my body, his stiff cock bobbing over my bra, brushing against my throat, and then he is leaning over me, his cock at my mouth, and I open it, my tongue against the tip of it. I reach for it, and he grabs my hand with one of his and pulls it above my head. “Unclasp your bra and then give me your other hand,” he orders, his eyes on mine.
