On My Knees

Page 67

“Jackson.” I say his name on a breath. “The room looks magical.”
“Looks? Sweetheart, I want you to feel magical. Lay back. Close your eyes.”
“What if I want to see you?”
“See me in your imagination, then.”
“I always do,” I admit, and am rewarded by both tenderness and heat shining in his eyes.
“I want you to feel,” he says. “And I want the feelings to send you someplace extraordinary.”
He helps me down, so that I am on my stomach, my head turned sideways and my eyes closed. The towel I am on covers something soft, and I feel as though I am enveloped in warmth. My arms are at my sides, and the damp heat of the room is making me both sleepy and aroused, and the combination is surprisingly potent and erotic.
He starts at my shoulders, using that same scented oil to stroke and massage, not too intense, but enough to be both soothing and relaxing. I’ve had a few sports massages, but none compared to this. His touch seems to fill me, and all of the stress of the day is just melting away under his persistent, incredible attention.
Slowly, he massages my shoulders, then down lower until his hands are cupping my waist, then my hips. He moves lower still, his clever hands kneading my thighs, and I spread my legs, my body craving more. He doesn’t take the hint, however. Instead, he continues lower, rubbing my calf, and then repeating the process on the other leg, working his way slowly up until his fingertips are teasing the sensitive skin between my ass and the top of my thigh.
I am a warm bundle of contentment, and it only gets better when he—yes, finally—eases my legs apart. I’m so wet, so aroused, and the brush of air over my sex makes me moan, and that sound turns even deeper and more needful when his oiled hand slides down between my legs to stroke me, his fingers sliding almost lazily into me.
But I want more, and I push back, trying to make the contact harder, deeper. I’m so turned on, and I am craving release, and the only word that fills my mind is please. Please, please, please.
I don’t even know that my lips have moved or that I have spoken, but I must, because he turns me over, and my legs are spread wide and he’s telling me not to open my eyes. To just float. To just feel.
What I’m feeling is his fingers inside me again. Thrusting hard. Thrusting deep.
And his body above me, his clothes brushing my bare skin, the cotton rubbing my sensitive nipples. He brushes a kiss over my lips and I whimper when it is all too short.
He starts trailing kisses down even as his fingers continue to stroke me, to tease me. Lower and lower, deeper and faster. His mouth on my breasts, on my belly. His tongue teasing my nipple while my hips arch in wild abandon as he finger-fucks me hard and deep.
Then his mouth is there, his tongue dancing over my clit, and oh my god, he’s right, it’s magical, because I swear that I am rising up, carried away on a storm of golden pixie dust as these sensations that had started so warm and tender have turned hard and hot and demanding and oh so very wonderful.
And then the spell shatters, breaking me apart, sending bits of me swirling off as electricity seems to arc through me, making me sizzle and glow and cry out from the wonderful, incredible, overwhelming pleasure of it all.
“Oh god.” I am gasping, trying to catch my breath. “Jackson—oh, dear god, Jackson.”
“Hush,” he says, and I realize that while I’ve been off in another dimension, he has picked me up. He’s holding me close, and my arms are around his neck. I’m completely exhausted, and sleep is pulling me under. He’s carrying me out of this truly exceptional bathroom and down the hall to his bedroom. He slides me into the bed, then gently tucks the covers around me.
Then he takes off his own clothes, and though my eyes are drooping, I can see his erection. I try not to drift too far, because I expect another round. An intimate touch. After all, he is so hard that he must be about to burst. But that touch doesn’t come, and I roll over so that I am facing him and blink sleepily. “But don’t you want—”
He presses his fingertip to my lips. “Right now,” he says as he pulls me closer, “I have everything I want in the world.”
twenty
“This,” Cass says, stepping back from the overstuffed clothing rack and holding up what looks like nothing more than some see-through pink gauze with a shiny, sequined band.
I cock my head. “What is that supposed to be?”
“A harem girl outfit. Duh.” She holds it by the sequined band, which apparently would sit on the unfortunate wearer’s hips. As far as I can tell, though, there is no top. Not even a sparkly festive one a la Barbara Eden in I Dream of Jeannie.