“You are so beautiful, Jo,” he murmurs.
“Thank you.”
Do you know how hard it is to simply accept a compliment, instead of playing it off, or deflecting it, or returning it?
Tonight, in this moment, it’s easy.
I feel beautiful.
It’s priceless.
He kisses my flesh, the small plump mounds of my breasts in the cups of the dress, and his fingers tug down the zipper, and thus loosened, the garment falls to the floor around my feet.
His breath catches. “Why, Jolene—you’re a bold little minx, aren’t you?”
I grin. “A little surprise for you.”
I’m naked. I wasn’t wearing a stitch of undergarments under the dress, which felt like the most daring, exhilarating secret in the world.
He just looks at me, taking in my naked form. “So, so beautiful.”
My eyes prick. “You make me feel beautiful, Wes. I wish I could explain to you how that feels.”
He molds his hands to my shoulders, pulls me against himself. “I can see it in your eyes.” He kisses them, my eyes, tasting my tears. His thumb grazes my lips, and his mouth whispers against mine. “I love you, Jolene Park.”
I laugh around a sob. “God, Wes.”
“That’s not how you say ‘I love you too,’” he teases. “But I’ll take it.”
I laugh again. “I do, though. I love you.” I press my fingertips into his chest, rest my forehead on his chin, steady myself. “I know everyone probably thinks it’s stupid and crazy, but—”
“I don’t care about anyone else, Jo. The only thing that matters is you and me. You feel it, I feel it. ‘Once you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”
I snicker. “Did you just quote Sherlock Holmes at me, sir?”
“I did.”
“Is that your idea of foreplay?” I laugh and pull back to look up into his eyes.
“No,” he murmurs. “But this is.”
He drops to his knees, eyes locked on mine. His hands reach up to cup my butt, and his lips touch my belly just under my navel and then my thigh and the other, and I’m unashamedly eager for this. I bury my fingers in his hair and widen my stance and throw my head back and moan in delight and relief and desire as he kisses his way, slowly, teasingly, to my sex.
I gasp when his tongue flits and slithers against my clit, and I groan when he drags one finger down my seam. I hold his head and my knees quake when he tongues me, and they buckle when his fingers find my opening.
“Wes,” I whimper. “Please.”
He kisses and licks, and his fingers move, and my hips buck. “Already?” he whispers, with a laugh.
“Yeah,” I gasp. “I’ve been—oh god, oh god—I’ve been turned on all day.”
He takes me to the edge, playing my senses and my body like a virtuoso musician, and flings me into orgasm and keeps me there. Even when he has to hold me up, his mouth is relentless in its quest for my pleasure, wringing every shiver and shudder out of me.
And then he scoops me up in his arms and carries me, and I’m gasping and shuddering against his chest, and even though I’m breathless and a puddle of liquid bliss, I feel his body against mine and I’m driven to kiss, to taste. To touch.
He settles me on the bed and hovers over me, and his mouth tastes of me and I’m aroused by that, by my own musk on his lips. He kisses me, and I moan into his mouth and I clutch his manhood.
Stroke and caress him.
He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against mine. “Jo…” There’s nothing else, just my name on his lips.
I release him, and meet his eyes, caress his hair and his ears and his jawline. Press against his shoulders, lifting my hips. “Again? Please?”
He laughs, a rough snarl of aroused amusement. “Greedy girl.”
“Yes, I am.”
He laughs again, but his mouth moves with slow hungry kisses to my breasts, and his fingers find my sex and touch me gently, softly, while his mouth moves over my breasts, one and the other, kissing and licking and suckling until my spine arches to crush my throbbing, hard nipples into his mouth, and his fingers delve slowly against my clit and I rise and I rise, and his lips are on my nipples and his tongue laves them and flicks them and my belly is a pool of boiling heat and the pressure is billowing through me and building and then when he slicks two fingers into my sex with a curling swipe and smears my essence over me, I explode. Gyrate against his fingers and then he’s kissing over my belly and my hip bones and then his lips fasten on my clit and his tongue replaces his fingers and those thick digits go into me and thrust and press and curl and massage.
I come, and I come.
I scream through it, letting the wild beauty of climax rip me open.
I lose myself.
He doesn’t relent even when my climax subsides, but his tongue and lips slow and kiss me with soft delicacy, and his fingers, three of them now, slide in and out, slow and shallow. And then I feel it yet again, another wave approaching.
“Wes, ohmygod, Wes.” I lift my hips to meet the wave, and his tongue circles me to bring it closer and I’m lit afire yet again.
I spasm, tightening around his fingers and grinding against his mouth.
Now, when the orgasm finally relinquishes me from its grip, I pull him up. He kisses his way back up my body. He settles over me. Gazes at me.
He’s hard between my thighs, and desire for him is a raging inferno, stoked to the wildest fury by the onslaught of orgasms he’s just given me. I reach between us and grasp him. I’m still shuddering with aftershocks, but need is already quaking through me anew.
“Make love to me now, Wes,” I breathe.
“Do we need—”
I shake my head, cut him off. “No.”
He doesn’t press it further. Just gazes down at me. Holds my eyes. His hand brushes against mine as he fits it between our bodies; I’m stroking him slowly, caressing his length with eager hands. He touches my opening. I feel him. Lift my hips and move closer to him. Breathe in slowly. I thought I’d be nervous when this moment came, but I’m not. There’s only need.
Together, we guide him to me.
When the moment comes, I take over. Fit the broad, plump head of him to my seam. Oh, oh god. Fingers and tongue and lips did not prepare me for this. I hold his eyes and focus on feeling. On sensation. On us. He shifts his weight forward, and his whole body is tense. He’s vibrating with need, with desire, with love. But he’s letting me guide us. Holding utterly still, moving as I need him to move. His arms are thick pillars of muscle beside my face; I clutch one, and I bite my lip as I wriggle my hips to take a hint more of him. He lets out a hoarse hiss of breath. Jaw drops.
His forehead touches mine. I lift my lips to his. Kiss him. Taste myself on his mouth and lick his lips and tangle our tongues and move to accept more of him. I ache with the thickness of him within me. Now that he’s inside me, I feel…I don’t know. A million things.
I ache.
There’s a burn of fullness, a sting.
Our gazes are locked and he moves against me, and I feel his belly sliding against mine and there’s a brief sharp pain. He withdraws without fully pulling out of me, and some instinct drives me to touch myself. The thrilling pulse of arousal rises in me, and he replaces my fingers with his, and it’s better, his touch is so much better. He kisses me and touches me, and I’m full of him, and the pain is less, and as his touch brings me higher, my body responds and clings to him and I feel desire seep through me and I feel renewed need wash over me. Now, the feel of him inside me isn’t foreign or alien or an intrusion, but a welcome and wild filling.