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Page 40
I see him approach in the reflection of the glass. I’m still oohing and ahhing over the view when he stops behind me and lays one hand flat on the glass and uses the other to sweep all my hair over my left shoulder, baring the right side of my neck. I watch his reflection in the glass as he bends down and places his lips on the skin where my neck and shoulder meet. My breath hitches instantly, the heat of his lips causing me to go from zero to sixty in a heartbeat. We stand like this for minutes, my chest heaving while he devotes more time than I’d have thought possible to worshiping my neck, his lips traveling up to my ear. I’m wearing dangly earrings, and he slips them out of each lobe, gently, his fingertips skimming my ear as he does, and holy shit, I’m wet again. He’s barely touched me, his lips on my neck, his fingertips across my earlobes, yet I’m electrified with need.
His movements are slow. So slow. The man is not in a hurry. His hands move to the hem of my sweater and he raises it, inching it up my torso until he gets to my chest and I raise my arms so he can slide it over my head. I watch the entire show in the reflection of the glass and I want him inside of me so badly that it hurts.
He drops the sweater and winds his hand around a chunk of hair at my scalp, tugging it so softly, as he moves his lips back to my collarbone. I am ready to whimper. And beg. Then he tugs my hair hard and bites my earlobe and I do whimper, my head falling back onto his shoulder.
His hands move to my waist, and I’m sure they’re headed for the button of my jeans, but they’re not. He slides them up my torso, and I pick my head up to watch in the reflection. My hair is already a mess, my eyelids at half-mast. He’s directly behind me, and all I can make out in the reflection are his hands and the top of his head as he moves it to the other side of my neck. He cups my breasts, over my bra, his thumbs rotating simultaneous circles over the lace, moving toward the center with each rotation until he’s thumbing my nipples and I’m bending at the waist, trying to grind against him to get some relief, any relief.
The cups of my bra are yanked down, my breasts lewdly resting atop, and then his fingers are back, cupping the weight of them as his thumbs get to work again on my nipples. They’re so sensitive right now, his hands so warm and erotic on my skin. I whine and brace my hands on the glass to keep myself upright a moment before he abruptly pinches each nipple and I mewl and drop my elbows to the glass, my head resting on my splayed fingertips.
“Sawyer, please.” I’ve moved on to begging. I want it so bad.
“Please what?” he asks, his palms caressing my tits, the heels of his hands brushing my nipples as he squeezes my flesh between his hands.
“Please take off your pants,” I whine.
He doesn’t respond, but turns me and slides his hands under my ass until I wrap my legs around his waist. He’s still fully clothed, and my nipples rub against his sweater, but it’s not where I want the friction. I bury my head in his neck to restrain myself from bouncing in his arms, trying to simulate what I really want to be doing this second.
He carries me like it’s nothing to walk with an extra hundred pounds clinging to him and I use the height of my position to finally get my hands into his hair. It’s as thick as I thought it would be and I run the pads of my fingers across his scalp, then do a little hair-tugging of my own and run my tongue along the perimeter of his ear.
We come to a stop in his bedroom and he sets me on my feet at the end of his bed. The room is illuminated with the lights from outside the window, the view the same from here as in the main room. Thankfully I’m not shy. He gives me a little shove so I lie back on my elbows, then correctly analyzes that the boots need to come off to pry these jeans off of me and lifts one ankle at a time, making short work of getting them off my feet. My own hands are already on my pants, zipper down, then shimmying them past my butt, lacy bikini bottoms included. Sawyer finishes the job and observes me buck naked on his bed, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip. He’s still dressed. Fucking tease.
His movements are slow. So slow. The man is not in a hurry. His hands move to the hem of my sweater and he raises it, inching it up my torso until he gets to my chest and I raise my arms so he can slide it over my head. I watch the entire show in the reflection of the glass and I want him inside of me so badly that it hurts.
He drops the sweater and winds his hand around a chunk of hair at my scalp, tugging it so softly, as he moves his lips back to my collarbone. I am ready to whimper. And beg. Then he tugs my hair hard and bites my earlobe and I do whimper, my head falling back onto his shoulder.
His hands move to my waist, and I’m sure they’re headed for the button of my jeans, but they’re not. He slides them up my torso, and I pick my head up to watch in the reflection. My hair is already a mess, my eyelids at half-mast. He’s directly behind me, and all I can make out in the reflection are his hands and the top of his head as he moves it to the other side of my neck. He cups my breasts, over my bra, his thumbs rotating simultaneous circles over the lace, moving toward the center with each rotation until he’s thumbing my nipples and I’m bending at the waist, trying to grind against him to get some relief, any relief.
The cups of my bra are yanked down, my breasts lewdly resting atop, and then his fingers are back, cupping the weight of them as his thumbs get to work again on my nipples. They’re so sensitive right now, his hands so warm and erotic on my skin. I whine and brace my hands on the glass to keep myself upright a moment before he abruptly pinches each nipple and I mewl and drop my elbows to the glass, my head resting on my splayed fingertips.
“Sawyer, please.” I’ve moved on to begging. I want it so bad.
“Please what?” he asks, his palms caressing my tits, the heels of his hands brushing my nipples as he squeezes my flesh between his hands.
“Please take off your pants,” I whine.
He doesn’t respond, but turns me and slides his hands under my ass until I wrap my legs around his waist. He’s still fully clothed, and my nipples rub against his sweater, but it’s not where I want the friction. I bury my head in his neck to restrain myself from bouncing in his arms, trying to simulate what I really want to be doing this second.
He carries me like it’s nothing to walk with an extra hundred pounds clinging to him and I use the height of my position to finally get my hands into his hair. It’s as thick as I thought it would be and I run the pads of my fingers across his scalp, then do a little hair-tugging of my own and run my tongue along the perimeter of his ear.
We come to a stop in his bedroom and he sets me on my feet at the end of his bed. The room is illuminated with the lights from outside the window, the view the same from here as in the main room. Thankfully I’m not shy. He gives me a little shove so I lie back on my elbows, then correctly analyzes that the boots need to come off to pry these jeans off of me and lifts one ankle at a time, making short work of getting them off my feet. My own hands are already on my pants, zipper down, then shimmying them past my butt, lacy bikini bottoms included. Sawyer finishes the job and observes me buck naked on his bed, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip. He’s still dressed. Fucking tease.
