The Hating Game
Page 80
“No! Josh, that’s absolutely not fair. Light on. I want to look at you.”
I flail my arm at the lamp but when he slides into the blankets and I register the warmth of his body against mine, we make identical sounds of disbelief. Skin to skin. The heat of it.
I have no idea where he is precisely. He’s all over me. I think I feel his breath in my hair, but we roll a little and when he sighs it’s down near my rib cage. It’s disconcerting and erotic and I nearly jolt out of my skin when he slides one hand across my ribs.
Another hand is dispensing with my stockings, smoothing down my legs. He’s touching my ankle and gently pinching at the little curve of my waist. I’ve got hands sliding all over me.
“You’re so soft it’s ridiculous. Everywhere my hand slides, you fit me. I was so right.”
He demonstrates. Throat. Breast. Ribs. Hips. Then he shows me his mouth fits perfectly too. My skin heats with every kiss and press. He licks at the sheen of sweat beginning to mist across me, and I hear a faraway sound that I realize is me. Whimpering, begging noises. He takes no notice and shows no pity. He presses his perfect mouth on whatever section of skin he pleases. Inch by inch, he is charting me like a map. Which is all very well, except that Josh has a body that I need to get my hands on. When he’s partway through traversing the upper curve of my spine, my pleading whispers begin to wear him down.
“Please let me touch you.”
He relents and rolls me over, and I run my hands down his neck to the big muscles at the tops of his arms. I squeeze. I bite. I use both hands to stroke down one bicep, weighing the muscle in my hand. It’s such a pleasure, to be touching someone else. It’s satin, this skin. My palms tingle from stroking it. My mouth fits everywhere that I can kiss him. My eyes are adjusting, and I can see the glint in his eye as I take my time, testing every new muscle, tendon, and joint that I encounter.
In the dark, I slide my body against his, feeling his sighs, and I tug him down to lie on me properly.
“I’m pretty heavy. I’ll flatten you.”
“I’ve had a good life.”
He laughs, husky and pleased, and obeys me, pressing me down so firmly into the mattress I lose half the air in my lungs.
“Oh, so good. So heavy. I love it.”
He kneels up after another minute because I am gradually dying. I reach down between us and take hold of his intriguing hardness. He lets me fondle and play until his every broken breath convinces me of the fact that he’s falling apart at the seams, and it’s because of me. I can’t think of anything more I could win. But then I feel his mouth against my hip bone, and then he starts kissing my thighs.
I have to laugh, both from the tickling of his stubble and the memory of our uniform argument from a lifetime ago. He kisses my thighs in openmouthed reverence, whispering things I can’t properly hear. They feel like they must be complimentary words; the hot breath punctuated with licks, bites, more kisses. I could never withstand the soft pressure of this mouth, and there’s no doubting his intention. My legs fall open, and I stare into the dark at the ceiling.
The first touch is a swirl. The kind of lick you’d make to the top of a melting ice cream cone. I breathe in so hard I nearly snort, and he kisses my inner thigh, a reward. I can’t form any human words.
The second is a kiss, and I think of his signature first-date kiss; chaste, soft, no tongue. The promise of everything to come. I hug a pillow and decide he’s never going on a first date with anyone, ever again.
The third is a kiss again, but it disintegrates from chaste to dirty so slowly I barely know when it’s changed. He’s got all the time in the world and with each minute ticking by, my body simultaneously relaxes and winds tighter. I find my voice and manage to sound crisp and prissy.
“I don’t think there’s anything about doing this in the HR manual.”
I can feel him shiver and groan. “Sorry,” he tells me. “You’re right.” He doesn’t stop, but continues to flaunt the HR regulations for an untold number of minutes.
I’m shaking closer and closer to the blinding personal explosion I feel nearby on the horizon. Frankly I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long. I put a hand down and sink my fingers into his hair and tug.
“I can’t handle it. Please. I need more. Way, way more.” I slide away, clutching at him, pulling him up by the arm with superhuman strength. He sighs indulgently and kneels up, and I finally hear that magic foil-rip.
His voice would sound authoritative when he speaks next, except it has a shaky, breathless edge, totally undermining his efforts.
“I’m finally having you.”
“I’m finally having you,” I counter.
He drops down and I’m surprised when the lamp flicks on. Dazzled, I close my eyes, and when I open them, he’s looking at me. The black-sapphire facets of his eyes are doing strange things to my heart.
“Hey, Shortcake.” Our fingers tangle again above my head.
The first press he makes is gentle and my body takes, and then takes some more. He’s pressing his temple to mine, making desperate sounds, like he’s in pain, like he’s trying to live through this. I involuntarily clench and he jerks forward, hard. My head nearly hits the headboard and I laugh.
“Sorry,” he says, and I kiss his cheek.
“Don’t apologize. Do it again.”
Chapter 26
We’ve never played the Staring Game with you inside me.” His hips flex a little, and my eyelids start to flutter.
I was expecting the pleasure and pressure, given that he’s huge and I’m small, but it’s emotion now tightening my throat until I can’t reply. It’s his eyes, and the expression in them as he begins to roll his hips, slick and easy. There’s no hard impact, no teeth-chattering thuds. He moves against me with measured control. This is the hottest moment of my life. I can’t process each sensation. A feeling similar to freaking out is beginning to fill my chest.
I can’t keep my composure under his eyes. Passionate eyes. Intense, fierce, fearless eyes. He wants me to hand over everything. He won’t take anything less from me.
“Talk to me.” He touches my nose with his. His breath is heavy and even.
“You were right . . . you fit me, somehow. Oh, that’s so nice.” I can barely speak. “I’m freaking out slightly.”
“Nice, huh?” He looks at me with amusement. “I can always do better than nice.”
I flail my arm at the lamp but when he slides into the blankets and I register the warmth of his body against mine, we make identical sounds of disbelief. Skin to skin. The heat of it.
I have no idea where he is precisely. He’s all over me. I think I feel his breath in my hair, but we roll a little and when he sighs it’s down near my rib cage. It’s disconcerting and erotic and I nearly jolt out of my skin when he slides one hand across my ribs.
Another hand is dispensing with my stockings, smoothing down my legs. He’s touching my ankle and gently pinching at the little curve of my waist. I’ve got hands sliding all over me.
“You’re so soft it’s ridiculous. Everywhere my hand slides, you fit me. I was so right.”
He demonstrates. Throat. Breast. Ribs. Hips. Then he shows me his mouth fits perfectly too. My skin heats with every kiss and press. He licks at the sheen of sweat beginning to mist across me, and I hear a faraway sound that I realize is me. Whimpering, begging noises. He takes no notice and shows no pity. He presses his perfect mouth on whatever section of skin he pleases. Inch by inch, he is charting me like a map. Which is all very well, except that Josh has a body that I need to get my hands on. When he’s partway through traversing the upper curve of my spine, my pleading whispers begin to wear him down.
“Please let me touch you.”
He relents and rolls me over, and I run my hands down his neck to the big muscles at the tops of his arms. I squeeze. I bite. I use both hands to stroke down one bicep, weighing the muscle in my hand. It’s such a pleasure, to be touching someone else. It’s satin, this skin. My palms tingle from stroking it. My mouth fits everywhere that I can kiss him. My eyes are adjusting, and I can see the glint in his eye as I take my time, testing every new muscle, tendon, and joint that I encounter.
In the dark, I slide my body against his, feeling his sighs, and I tug him down to lie on me properly.
“I’m pretty heavy. I’ll flatten you.”
“I’ve had a good life.”
He laughs, husky and pleased, and obeys me, pressing me down so firmly into the mattress I lose half the air in my lungs.
“Oh, so good. So heavy. I love it.”
He kneels up after another minute because I am gradually dying. I reach down between us and take hold of his intriguing hardness. He lets me fondle and play until his every broken breath convinces me of the fact that he’s falling apart at the seams, and it’s because of me. I can’t think of anything more I could win. But then I feel his mouth against my hip bone, and then he starts kissing my thighs.
I have to laugh, both from the tickling of his stubble and the memory of our uniform argument from a lifetime ago. He kisses my thighs in openmouthed reverence, whispering things I can’t properly hear. They feel like they must be complimentary words; the hot breath punctuated with licks, bites, more kisses. I could never withstand the soft pressure of this mouth, and there’s no doubting his intention. My legs fall open, and I stare into the dark at the ceiling.
The first touch is a swirl. The kind of lick you’d make to the top of a melting ice cream cone. I breathe in so hard I nearly snort, and he kisses my inner thigh, a reward. I can’t form any human words.
The second is a kiss, and I think of his signature first-date kiss; chaste, soft, no tongue. The promise of everything to come. I hug a pillow and decide he’s never going on a first date with anyone, ever again.
The third is a kiss again, but it disintegrates from chaste to dirty so slowly I barely know when it’s changed. He’s got all the time in the world and with each minute ticking by, my body simultaneously relaxes and winds tighter. I find my voice and manage to sound crisp and prissy.
“I don’t think there’s anything about doing this in the HR manual.”
I can feel him shiver and groan. “Sorry,” he tells me. “You’re right.” He doesn’t stop, but continues to flaunt the HR regulations for an untold number of minutes.
I’m shaking closer and closer to the blinding personal explosion I feel nearby on the horizon. Frankly I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long. I put a hand down and sink my fingers into his hair and tug.
“I can’t handle it. Please. I need more. Way, way more.” I slide away, clutching at him, pulling him up by the arm with superhuman strength. He sighs indulgently and kneels up, and I finally hear that magic foil-rip.
His voice would sound authoritative when he speaks next, except it has a shaky, breathless edge, totally undermining his efforts.
“I’m finally having you.”
“I’m finally having you,” I counter.
He drops down and I’m surprised when the lamp flicks on. Dazzled, I close my eyes, and when I open them, he’s looking at me. The black-sapphire facets of his eyes are doing strange things to my heart.
“Hey, Shortcake.” Our fingers tangle again above my head.
The first press he makes is gentle and my body takes, and then takes some more. He’s pressing his temple to mine, making desperate sounds, like he’s in pain, like he’s trying to live through this. I involuntarily clench and he jerks forward, hard. My head nearly hits the headboard and I laugh.
“Sorry,” he says, and I kiss his cheek.
“Don’t apologize. Do it again.”
Chapter 26
We’ve never played the Staring Game with you inside me.” His hips flex a little, and my eyelids start to flutter.
I was expecting the pleasure and pressure, given that he’s huge and I’m small, but it’s emotion now tightening my throat until I can’t reply. It’s his eyes, and the expression in them as he begins to roll his hips, slick and easy. There’s no hard impact, no teeth-chattering thuds. He moves against me with measured control. This is the hottest moment of my life. I can’t process each sensation. A feeling similar to freaking out is beginning to fill my chest.
I can’t keep my composure under his eyes. Passionate eyes. Intense, fierce, fearless eyes. He wants me to hand over everything. He won’t take anything less from me.
“Talk to me.” He touches my nose with his. His breath is heavy and even.
“You were right . . . you fit me, somehow. Oh, that’s so nice.” I can barely speak. “I’m freaking out slightly.”
“Nice, huh?” He looks at me with amusement. “I can always do better than nice.”
