Something Reckless
Page 62
“I’ll choose my question more carefully next time,” he says. He’s running kisses down the side of my neck and he still hasn’t released my hands. “Tell me about the first time you touched yourself.”
“What?” I’m so distracted by the way he’s kissing me. I rock my hips, trying to get him to slide into me. God, I’m ready. I should be sore. Tired. Over it. But I’m not. I don’t think he could ever bore me. With him, I’m perpetually aroused.
I tug at my hands, trying to get free from his grip, and he tightens his hold and groans. “Tell me about it,” he murmurs. He slides down my body and skims his lips over my nipple.
“About what?”
“Tell me about the first time you touched yourself. The first time you put your hand between your legs. That’s a first time I want to hear about.” He opens his mouth over my breast and licks my nipple before sucking hard and making me cry out.
“I don’t . . . remember,” I manage.
He chuckles against my breast. “Now I don’t believe that. I think every girl remembers the first time she lets herself . . . explore. Were you in high school?”
My breast goes cold when his mouth leaves it, wet and exposed. “Please,” I murmur, arching toward him and tugging at my hands. “Just . . .”
He holds me tight, refusing to release me or give me what I need. “I’ll make you a deal, Rowdy. You tell me what I want, and I’ll give you what you want.” He’s grinning at me, as if this is some kind of game, as if I’m not going to dissolve into a puddle of lust if he doesn’t put his mouth back on me soon.
“I was in college,” I say.
He groans. “A late explorer. I guess I can see that from the Catholic girl.” He drags my hands to hold them at my sides, kissing my stomach as he works his way down my body.
Please, yes.
He stops at my navel and lifts his head. “Where did you do it?”
My cheeks burn with a combination of embarrassment and arousal, but I understand the game now and I want to play. I need his mouth—more, lower. “I was in bed napping.”
He rewards my response by circling my navel with his tongue then tasting me there. My body shudders in response. “You couldn’t have been napping if you were touching yourself,” he says.
“I was half asleep. I had a sexy dream and I wanted . . .”
He waits patiently, and when I don’t answer, he rolls off me.
“Come back here.”
“Show me,” he says. He takes one of my hands and settles it between my legs, and only then does he release it. “Show me what you wanted. What you did.”
His voice is rough, that low, gravelly rumble he gets when he’s fucking me and close to coming. Only he’s not fucking me. He’s propped up on his elbow next to me, his eyes trained desperately on my hand resting between my legs.
I lick my lips. I don’t know why I want to do this for him. I’m not even sure why he wants me to. All I know is that the feel of my own fingers resting against my slick flesh has never been so arousing. All I know is that I want this as much as he does.
I roll to my side, facing him, but I don’t remove my hand from between my legs. “I was on my stomach,” I whisper. “Do you want me to roll onto my stomach or stay like this?”
“Stay like this.” The command is rough, scratched out against a throat full of need. I want to kiss him, to tell him this wouldn’t be so hot to me if he weren’t here. If he weren’t looking at me, talking to me. “You were having a good dream,” he prompts.
I lick my lips and begin moving my hand between my legs. “It was easier that way,” I say softly. “Being half asleep, I mean. It’s not like I thought there was anything wrong with masturbation, not . . .” My breath catches as my fingers find my clit. His eyes go dark. “Not intellectually.”
“Let go, sweetheart. Just ride with it. Don’t worry about me.”
I watch him for a while, captivated by the way his eyes lock on my fingers as they work between my legs, the rise and fall of his chest, his audible swallow as he holds himself back. His fingers are locked around my other wrist, trapping it, adding pressure from time to time. Otherwise, he doesn’t touch me at all. It’s by my hand alone that I ride to that summit. I stroke my clit, pinching it lightly before softening my touch and simply rocking my hips to rub against my hand.
I let my eyes float closed and take myself there, guided by nothing but my own pleasure and the sound of his breathing.
When I come back down, I roll to my back, muscles loose, body satisfied. He kisses my collarbone.
“Thanks,” he whispers.
“Thanks?”
“Yeah, that was one of the best things I’ve seen. Ever.” His grin is so charming, and it sends a buzz of warmth all the way through my sated body.
“You know some guys don’t like the idea of their woman touching herself.”
He cocks a brow. “I am firmly not in that category.”
I bring my hand to his lips. “I noticed.”
Grabbing my wrist, he draws two fingers into his mouth, wrapping his tongue around them and sucking hard.
All that sleepy warmth tingles at the attention of his mouth on my fingers, and my body starts to wake.
“Let’s just say that, even if it took you until college, I’m glad you finally came around.” He winks. “What do you think changed?”
“What?” I’m so distracted by the way he’s kissing me. I rock my hips, trying to get him to slide into me. God, I’m ready. I should be sore. Tired. Over it. But I’m not. I don’t think he could ever bore me. With him, I’m perpetually aroused.
I tug at my hands, trying to get free from his grip, and he tightens his hold and groans. “Tell me about it,” he murmurs. He slides down my body and skims his lips over my nipple.
“About what?”
“Tell me about the first time you touched yourself. The first time you put your hand between your legs. That’s a first time I want to hear about.” He opens his mouth over my breast and licks my nipple before sucking hard and making me cry out.
“I don’t . . . remember,” I manage.
He chuckles against my breast. “Now I don’t believe that. I think every girl remembers the first time she lets herself . . . explore. Were you in high school?”
My breast goes cold when his mouth leaves it, wet and exposed. “Please,” I murmur, arching toward him and tugging at my hands. “Just . . .”
He holds me tight, refusing to release me or give me what I need. “I’ll make you a deal, Rowdy. You tell me what I want, and I’ll give you what you want.” He’s grinning at me, as if this is some kind of game, as if I’m not going to dissolve into a puddle of lust if he doesn’t put his mouth back on me soon.
“I was in college,” I say.
He groans. “A late explorer. I guess I can see that from the Catholic girl.” He drags my hands to hold them at my sides, kissing my stomach as he works his way down my body.
Please, yes.
He stops at my navel and lifts his head. “Where did you do it?”
My cheeks burn with a combination of embarrassment and arousal, but I understand the game now and I want to play. I need his mouth—more, lower. “I was in bed napping.”
He rewards my response by circling my navel with his tongue then tasting me there. My body shudders in response. “You couldn’t have been napping if you were touching yourself,” he says.
“I was half asleep. I had a sexy dream and I wanted . . .”
He waits patiently, and when I don’t answer, he rolls off me.
“Come back here.”
“Show me,” he says. He takes one of my hands and settles it between my legs, and only then does he release it. “Show me what you wanted. What you did.”
His voice is rough, that low, gravelly rumble he gets when he’s fucking me and close to coming. Only he’s not fucking me. He’s propped up on his elbow next to me, his eyes trained desperately on my hand resting between my legs.
I lick my lips. I don’t know why I want to do this for him. I’m not even sure why he wants me to. All I know is that the feel of my own fingers resting against my slick flesh has never been so arousing. All I know is that I want this as much as he does.
I roll to my side, facing him, but I don’t remove my hand from between my legs. “I was on my stomach,” I whisper. “Do you want me to roll onto my stomach or stay like this?”
“Stay like this.” The command is rough, scratched out against a throat full of need. I want to kiss him, to tell him this wouldn’t be so hot to me if he weren’t here. If he weren’t looking at me, talking to me. “You were having a good dream,” he prompts.
I lick my lips and begin moving my hand between my legs. “It was easier that way,” I say softly. “Being half asleep, I mean. It’s not like I thought there was anything wrong with masturbation, not . . .” My breath catches as my fingers find my clit. His eyes go dark. “Not intellectually.”
“Let go, sweetheart. Just ride with it. Don’t worry about me.”
I watch him for a while, captivated by the way his eyes lock on my fingers as they work between my legs, the rise and fall of his chest, his audible swallow as he holds himself back. His fingers are locked around my other wrist, trapping it, adding pressure from time to time. Otherwise, he doesn’t touch me at all. It’s by my hand alone that I ride to that summit. I stroke my clit, pinching it lightly before softening my touch and simply rocking my hips to rub against my hand.
I let my eyes float closed and take myself there, guided by nothing but my own pleasure and the sound of his breathing.
When I come back down, I roll to my back, muscles loose, body satisfied. He kisses my collarbone.
“Thanks,” he whispers.
“Thanks?”
“Yeah, that was one of the best things I’ve seen. Ever.” His grin is so charming, and it sends a buzz of warmth all the way through my sated body.
“You know some guys don’t like the idea of their woman touching herself.”
He cocks a brow. “I am firmly not in that category.”
I bring my hand to his lips. “I noticed.”
Grabbing my wrist, he draws two fingers into his mouth, wrapping his tongue around them and sucking hard.
All that sleepy warmth tingles at the attention of his mouth on my fingers, and my body starts to wake.
“Let’s just say that, even if it took you until college, I’m glad you finally came around.” He winks. “What do you think changed?”
