I want to keep kissing her. I want to keep tracing her tongue with my own, to hear her heavy breaths and the feel of her teeth taking my bottom lip between them. I want to touch her skin and climb on top of her. I want to do everything I’ve imagined.
But I don’t.
I pull back, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip and tasting her fruity lip balm. Her chest is rising and falling; so is mine. My forehead is against hers, and instead of fully moving away from her, I kiss her again.
It’s deep and feral. Stacey matches each stroke of my tongue as she positions my hand on her waist, snatching my shoulders and dragging me on top of her. I like that she’s taking control, because I really don’t have a clue what I’m doing.
She tastes like sweet intoxication as she tugs at my hair. I’m not sure how long we stay like this, but my lips are raw, my dick is harder than a rock and my top has ridden so far up Stacey’s body, I can see her underwear and the underside of her bra.
The image will haunt me forever. In a good way. I think.
I break the kiss, rising on my knees and dragging my hooded gaze down her body. Each curve. Each inked design. I want to touch her everywhere .
“You aren’t real, Freckles.” I splay my hand on her stomach and slide it up. “So fucking beautiful. You were made for me.”
“As much as I don’t want to stroke your ego, you’re not too bad yourself,” she replies with a giggle, and the way she says stroke has my dick jerking.
There’s no hiding how aroused I am. I’m not small, and my shorts do nothing to conceal the tenting of the fabric. She keeps glancing down at it.
“We’re going slow,” she says. “Right?”
We.
I nod and remove my hand. “Right. But if you want something,” I say, eyes trailing back down the length of her body, “tell me.”
She puts my hand on her ribs. “I want you to kiss me again.”
Oh thank fucking God. If she’d asked me to eat her out or to fuck her, I would’ve disintegrated into a pile of dust.
I lower onto her and crush my mouth to hers, devouring her lips. She sucks on my tongue, and I groan into her mouth as her ankle hooks behind my leg.
“I trust you,” she whispers to me, snatching my jaw, so my gaze is pulled back to meet hers. Her hair surrounds the pillow; green eyes, full lips. “I want you to trust me too.”
She takes the hand on her ribs and slowly slides it under her bra – thin black lace with stitched detail in rose that matches her panties. I grit my teeth and control each breath through my nostrils at the softness of her skin there.
“I trust you,” she says again.
My hand freezes, my lungs seizing. The fuck am I doing? I can’t sit here and fondle her. I can’t do any of this without messing up. I’ll do it wrong.
She notices my hesitation. “You won’t hurt me.”
“I could.”
She holds my cheek delicately, her voice low. “No you couldn’t, and you won’t.”
“You want me to do this?” I ask as I cup her breast, needing confirmation. She was the one who put my hands on her, but right now I need to hear her say that three-lettered word.
“Yes,” she breathes. “I want you to. But I don’t want you to do anything you aren’t comfortable with. We can stop – or slow down. Just tell me.”
Without having to think again, I slip my other hand under her bra and palm her other breast. My mind hasn’t caught up with my body yet, so as I shove her bra to her chin to get a full view, I caress her. Her tits are handfuls, full and perky, and I want to know what they’d feel like in my mouth. How much pleasure would she get from me kissing them?
Her nipples tighten to peaks as I swipe one with my thumb, and she lets out a quiet moan.
“Fuck,” I blurt.
Stacey sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and bites it, her breathing heavier. “They aren’t big or anything special.”
“Be quiet.”
She grins, but it falls, her mouth open as I roll her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. I lean down to kiss her again, swallowing her little whimpers as I pinch and roll, caressing her breasts while I devour her.
Finally, I release her nipples, shift onto my back and pull her on top of me.
I tug at my top. “Take this off,” I order, nearly exploding in my boxers as she whips it from her body and tosses it behind her. “Fucking perfect.”
She breathes deeply as I reach up and palm her tits again. My dick is straining in my shorts, and the fact she’s sitting an inch from it isn’t helpful. I’ve never looked at someone and wanted to fuck them. Yeah, I’ve imagined myself putting Stacey in every position possible, but I’ve never wanted to act on those scenarios.
Not that she isn’t fuckable; I’m just not that type of guy.
But with Stacey in only her underwear, straddling me in my bed, her pupils dilated and a flush to her skin, I want to sink my cock into her deep enough that I’ll never get it back out.
We’re kissing again, and I gain some confidence in letting my hands explore her nearly naked body. From her bare ass to gripping her back, to rolling her nipples and pinching as she whimpers my name.
She moans into my mouth when I pinch harder, my lips travelling down her throat so I can suck on her pulse, which hammers against my tongue. I want to keep going, to take her nipple between my teeth, but I go back to her mouth instead.
She whimpers as I pull her hair, flipping us again so I’m between her legs.
“We’re never going to watch this fucking movie.”
“What was it called again?” she jokes, smiling as I nip at her jaw and move hair from her face.
I drop to her side, lacing one hand with hers while the other twirls a strand of black hair around my finger. “You said you’d be a good girl. ”
When I texted her drunk the other night, she said I had to take her for a McDonald’s every week now that I had a licence, and I said only if she was a good girl.
Her response?
I’m always a good girl, Kade.
I nearly died.
She fake gasps. “Am I being a bad girl?”
Inwardly, I groan as I look down at her body, clad now only in her panties. “Very.”
“Then you better put the movie on.” Stacey bites my knuckles playfully before – sadly – putting my top back on. “Or I’ll go watch it with Luciella instead.”
“Lie. She’d never willingly watch it.”
Stacey cuddles into my side, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders. The movie starts, and we both focus our attention on it, quiet unless she’s asking me questions about it. She smiles a lot. Her eyes go wide a lot. She tightens her fingers around mine a lot.
It feels nice.
I feel her sink into my embrace as the opera singer starts. I don’t watch the TV screen; I’m staring at her. Her eyes are fixed on the movie; she’s hanging on to each word, each lyric that belts from the redhead’s lips.
“Why is this sad?” she asks with a trembling chin. “His wife can see the way he’s reacting. I want to hug her.”
“I know.”
“But the song is so heartbreakingly beautiful.”
“I know.”
We watch the rest of the movie, and by the time the credits come up, we’re both yawning, legs tangled together, her wild hair in my face.