Star-Crossed Letters (Falling for Famous #1)(85)

We lazily explore each other’s bodies, and I shiver, wondering how it’s possible to be turned on again after that explosive orgasm.

We play with each other until we’re gasping.

“Baby, stop, or I’ll come all over you.”

“Same,” I breathe.

I play with the moisture leaking from his tip, and he moans. Warmth blossoms in my chest that I have so much power over someone so amazing. And then it’s my turn to groan when he retaliates by dipping a finger inside me, fucking me in long, slow, deep strokes.

“I need more, Chase,” I beg, writhing on his finger as he moves it in and out in a rhythm that makes me mindless with need. “I need this,” I say, squeezing his dick in my hand, and then stroking faster.

“You’re so damn wet.”

That makes me blush.

He grins. “Wet isn’t a bad thing, you know.”

He looks so self-satisfied that I push him. “You don’t have to look so smug. Maybe I’m just easily aroused.”

He’s still smiling, but the smile is a little less playful, a little darker. “Not by anyone else but me,” he says.

I lean over him. “No one else,” I admit.

My dark hair hangs down as I kiss above his eyes. “Just you have this power.” I move on to his high cheekbones, his strong chin. Then those lips. First the top and then the bottom. And back to the top one more time. I feel his lips curve in a smile against mine, and my stomach dips in reaction, butterflies unleashed.

He sweeps back my hair that brushes his face, neck, and chest. He follows the strands down to where they block my pale breasts. I’m soft everywhere—probably too soft, I know—but he doesn’t seem to mind. He strokes the curve of my breasts, then he moves his hand lower.

“Stop making me lose my mind. It’s my turn to explore,” I say.

I look at him, so large and powerful below me. Even his dick is beautiful, because of course it is. So I lean and take a tentative lick, like the first taste of a lollipop. His answer is a deep moan, and his cock jerks.

I look up. “Is that okay?”

“Very okay.”

“Good, then. Just checking.” I laugh, and he laughs also. It’s so surprising that while we’re doing this intimate thing, we can be giggling like kids. I never imagined there would be jokes or talking or that I would feel as comfortable as I do with him.

I trust him.

I realize that’s the difference. I’ve always been nervous around guys, afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. You would have thought that, with Chase, I would be even more nervous. But from the beginning, there was something about him that just seemed familiar, like I could be myself and he would be okay with that. Maybe him being off-limits and so far out of my league took the pressure off.

I take him deeper into my mouth, and he moans louder, longer.

That’s the way I learn to give my first blow job, by gauging his moans. I experiment, alternate rhythms, pressure, licking, stroking, and sucking. And he’s not the only one who likes it. Getting him excited gets me excited. Pleasuring him is hot—tasting him, that feeling of power that this magnificent man is at my mercy and nearly mad with desire. That I can take him higher and higher until he gives it all to me.

I’m addicted to his taste and the sounds he’s making as I take him into my mouth in a deep, wet, sucking rhythm. He attempts to pull me off him with a gentle tug and a warning. “Olivia, I’m going to—”

I’ve read enough books, heard enough talk about spitting or swallowing, and I want every last bit of him. I want to stay with him till the end.

When he comes with a curse, I swallow it like a good girl. When he finally settles, he pulls me up to kiss the top of my head and tucks me into that perfect crook between his arm and chest. And all I can think is, God, who knew I’d enjoy giving blow jobs this much?

I’m tempted to ask him if this means we won’t make love. I’m not exactly up on male anatomy, but I’ve read enough to suspect that it will take a while to do that again. At least for him. For me, all my parts are awake and alert. My nipples are still pebbles, something he discovers as he palms them.

“I love your tits,” he says, leaning down and taking one nipple into his mouth. I moan his name. He lavishes his attention on the next one, his hand roaming downward.

“Are you? Can we—” I ask.

“Shh, this is for you,” he says. He plays with me in a way that has me gasping. “Tell me what you want.”

When I don’t say anything, he grows more insistent.

“Tell me,” he repeats in a demanding tone that works for me.

But still, I’m embarrassed. I don’t know how to talk dirty.

“It’s part of your education,” he says in a more amused tone.

I snort. “What? Are you some sort of professor of sex?”

He does something particularly amazing with his fingers and, at the same time, slaps my ass lightly, and I moan and almost come.

“Okay, maybe you are,” I admit to him. “Do that again,” I practically beg, panting.

“This?” he asks. “Or this?” he teases, repeating them both.

“Any of it. All of it.” I’m past talking, past thinking. All I can do is feel and let him do what he wants.

Thankfully, he takes orders better than I do because he does all of it to me and more, and soon, I’m splitting apart in the second most intense orgasm I’ve ever had in my life.