“Tell me what you feel,” he demanded again.
“Excited,” I breathed, chest heaving at the admission. “And… hot.”
“Hot,” he echoed with a satisfied grin, and once again that hand of his trailed down, but this time, not over my arm. He slid it along the length of my throat, just the tiniest amount of pressure there before he continued lower, over my collarbone, my chest, and finally, palmed my breast through the thin tank top I wore.
The thin tank top with nothing else underneath it.
My nipple puckered even more at the connection, and Clay groaned his approval, thumbing it through the thin cotton fabric. A pang of white hot shot from that point of contact right between my legs, and I cried out, arching into the touch and pulling away from it both at once.
“That warmth is desire,” he explained, rolling his thumb around my nipple again. “You’re turned on.”
“Yes,” I breathed. Then, I rolled my lips together, fighting for the words. “How do I make you feel that?”
Clay laughed, the sound low and delicious in my ear. His palm left my breast, cold air sweeping in to take its place as he reached down for my hand. Threading his fingers around mine, he slowly slid my hand along his stomach, and I felt every ridge and valley of his abdomen on the way down.
Until he cupped my hand in his, guiding my palm down to where his thick, solid erection strained against his sweatpants.
“Fuck,” I whispered when I felt it, when Clay groaned and flexed into my touch. I couldn’t help but wrap around it as best I could with the sweatpants in the way, and Clay dropped his forehead to mine, swallowing.
“There’s your answer, Kitten,” he husked.
He was turned on. His skin was blistering hot just like mine.
Because of me.
The power of that truth surged through me like a tidal wave, and I tilted my lips up to meet his, to moan into his mouth as I rubbed my palm along his length. It twitched at the contact, and my mouth watered, like I wanted to taste it, like I wanted to know what it felt like going down my throat.
I blame the dirty books.
With a groan, Clay lowered himself, taking his mouth from mine and his cock out of reach with one movement.
I pouted, but he only smiled, shaking his head like I was going to be the death of him. “I need to focus,” he explained.
“On wha—”
But I didn’t have time to finish, because in the next breath, Clay ran his hand under the hem of my tank top, pushing it up and over the swells of my breasts. It was brute force, the fabric shoved up around my neck and my breasts exposed without warning. The cool air had my nipples peaked, along with the way Clay’s eyes swam over them, taking in every inch of them before his palm found me again.
A breathy hiss left me at the touch, at how tightly my thigh muscles clenched when his hand touched me there. I pushed up into the pillows so I could watch, so I could see his thumb swiping over the top of my light mauve bud.
“It’s like… sparks,” I tried to explain through my panting, and Clay smirked, circling my nipple with his thumb as I whimpered and writhed.
“Some girls like it, some girls don’t,” he said. “How does it feel?”
“Hot.”
He chuckled. “Good hot, or bad hot?”
I considered the question, not really sure. It was a little of both, like touching my tongue to an acidic battery or a copper penny. It shocked me, and felt uncomfortable, but at the same time, I liked it.
At least, I thought.
When I didn’t answer, Clay settled lower between my legs, his chest pressed against my aching core now as he balanced on his elbows.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
I did, releasing a long breath.
And then, his mouth was on me.
I gasped, the sensation rocking through me violently as his tongue swirled over my nipple.
“Clay,” I breathed, and without meaning to, my hands shot for his hair, and I held on like those strands were reins.
“Good or bad?” he asked again.
“Good,” I breathed out, wetting my lips. “Very good.”
He smiled against my breast, and then his tongue was dancing, circling and flicking as little shots of electricity bolted down between my legs. Then, he sucked my nipple between his teeth, nipping so gently I barely registered it before he released me.
“Is that okay?”
“God, yes,” I breathed, hands fisting in his hair, and he kissed a line of sweet, tender kisses across the middle of my chest until he took my other nipple between his teeth, spreading the love.
It felt like hours of that torture, his lips moving from one to the other, tongue never tiring, and when he finally crawled back up to take my mouth with those beautiful lips again, I held him to me, arching into him, wanting to praise him like a saint.
“That was amazing,” I breathed. “Now what the hell do I do to you?”
Clay barked out a laugh, but it faded quickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he rolled over onto his back. He kept his eyes on me, but I couldn’t help but watch his hands where they lowered, thumbs sliding under the band of his sweatpants. He pushed into his heels, lifted his hips, and tugged them down below his knees before kicking them the rest of the way off.
My eyes grew wide, and Clay paused with his thumbs in the band of his briefs next.
“You okay?”
“Take your briefs off, Clay,” I said, practically panting as I waited for him to free the beast straining against the black fabric.
A light chuckle left him, and then he did as I asked, and when his erection sprang free, I actually salivated.
I’d never seen one in real life, never known anything other than what I’d glimpsed on raunchy television shows or the occasional porn I indulged in. But I’d read about them. I’d felt my body heating as the authors described the swollen tip, the veiny shaft, the thick base with tufts of hair.
None of it compared.
I reached for him automatically, but his hand snapped out, capturing my wrist and halting me.
“Touch yourself first.”
I balked. “Wh-what?”
Clay moved my hand to my stomach, pushing it down under the hem of my sweatpants as my eyes fluttered at the sensation. He wasn’t even touching me yet. It was my own damn hand.
But his was on top of it.
He lined up his fingers with mine, the pad of his pushing into my nail, and he ran my hand along the length of my vagina, slipping one finger between the folds.
“Are you wet?” he asked.
I nodded, unable to form words.
“Coat yourself in it,” he instructed. “Slick your hand with your wetness, and then let me feel it.”
My next swallow was rough, like I’d taken too big of a bite — and maybe I had. Maybe I’d bitten off entirely more than I could chew, but God did it feel good to have his eyes on me, his hands, his mouth.
I’d debate the consequences later.
I did as he said, and my body heated more and more each time my palm slicked over my clit. Clay helped my hand glide back and forth, drenching my fingers and palm, and then he removed our hands from beneath my pants and moved them over to him.
I leaned up on my elbow, watching as he wrapped my hand around his base.
The second I touched him, he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and falling back into the pillows.