“Within reason.”
I can practically see his wheels turning. “Just to be clear, we’re talking about sex, right?”
“Sex? I was talking about board games. I was thinking Monopoly would be fun. You know how that can go on forever and ever.”
Randy grabs me by the waist and flips me over so I’m sprawled on the couch. I don’t have time to get my legs closed before he gets between them and stretches out on top of me.
I put my hands on his chest and push, but he’s heavy. “Hey! We’re having a conversation, remember?”
“There will be no Monopoly tonight,” he growls.
“There will be if you guess wrong,” I threaten.
He pushes up so he’s doing a one-armed plank. Holding his tattooed hand in front of my face he wiggles his fingers. “I’m going to say this one.”
“You’re so smart.” I lift my head enough to bite one of his knuckles. “Do you know why it’s my favorite?”
“Because it’s like I have your name tattooed on my hand?” The flower is a lily. Since we started dating, I’ve come to discover it’s his mother’s favorite, and that’s why it’s there. But I like that there’s an unintentional connection to me, and that sometimes people come to the inaccurate conclusion that he had it put there because it represents me.
“If I say yes, does that make me egotistical?” I’m working really hard to keep my legs from wrapping around his waist.
Randy’s tongue peeks out to sweep across his bottom lip. “Not even a little.”
“Good to know, but that’s not the primary reason it’s my favorite.” I press my knees against his hips, but keep my feet glued to the couch.
“No?”
“Nope.”
Randy runs his hand down my side and gives my thigh a gentle squeeze. “You gonna tell me why, or are you gonna keep me guessing?”
“I like that you’re this big, badass hockey player with a pretty tattoo right on the back of your hand. It’s sexy.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mmm.” I bite my lip, being intentionally coy. “Wanna know why else I love that tattoo?”
“Why’s that?” Randy drops his hips so his amazing hard-on is now pressed against my stomach.
“’Cause it looks hot when that hand is between my thighs.”
“Is that right?”
“It is.”
“You mean like this?” Randy pushes up, folding back on his knees between my spread legs.
I’m momentarily disheartened by the lack of moody dick contact. Moody dick is my nickname for Randy’s penis. He took a skate to the groin as a kid, resulting in a pretty significant scar that makes his penis look sad when it’s soft and happy when it’s hard. He slips his fingers into the front of my shorts—thank Christ for the elastic waist—yanks them down low, and grazes my clit with his knuckle.
I suck in a sharp breath. “Just like that.”
He withdraws his hand just as fast as he shoved it down there. “I knew you weren’t wearing panties.”
“Why bother when there’s a good chance you’re going to take them off anyway?”
Randy eases his hands up the inside of my thighs, stopping too far away for anything good to happen. “I thought you wanted to play board games tonight.”
“Naked board games?”
“The board games part is where you lose me.” He’s still kneeling between my parted legs.
I open them even farther. “How about just playing naked?”
He grabs the crotch of my shorts—with his tattooed hand, of course—and makes a fist. At first I think he’s going to yank them off, which would be totally welcome at this point. Sometimes I threaten no naked time just to amp Randy up. Not that it’s necessary, he’s usually pretty amped as it is. But the sex when he’s been worried he isn’t getting any is often out of this world.
Instead of taking off my shorts, he tightens his fist. His lip curls in a sexy sneer as he rubs his knuckles over my clit again. I groan and start to lift my hips, but he’s quick to put his free palm low on my stomach, keeping me from achieving any additional friction. This is Randy’s way of punishing me for my threats, even if he knows it was all a farce.
“Why don’t you take your shirt off for me, luscious?” He adjusts his grip, his knuckles pressing right where I want them.
Grabbing the bottom, I keep my eyes on his and drag the cotton up over my abs. Like Randy, I have a six-pack—mine is far less defined, but it’s definitely there. Randy’s eyes are on my stomach, moving higher as I uncover more skin. I may arch my back a little more than necessary as I expose the swell of my breasts. I don’t have big boobs, so the arching helps make them look more ample. It also makes Randy’s knuckles slide over the right spot.
My nipples pop out, and I may or may not drag my fingernails over them and moan rather loudly—for effect, of course. Randy huffs out a small laugh because he knows my game. His lips part, that smirky smirk of his still making the top one curl. I’m in for some amazing orgasms tonight. I’m already on the brink of one thanks to the teasing.
Now, let me be clear on something—prior to Randy, it used to take some work for me to have an orgasm. Whether it was with someone else or on my own, I required at least a good ten minutes of direct stimulation to reach that amazing state of bliss. But something about our particular brand of chemistry has changed that. I don’t know if our pheromones are in perfect sync, or we’re orgasm soul mates, or some other kind of soul mates, but all Randy has to do is look at me the right way, and I’m halfway to coming. It’s insane. I’m not complaining, though.
Randy runs the hand on my lower abs up over my stomach to palm my left breast. He captures the nipple between his fingers, then leans over me so he can take the other one between his lips. His soft beard tickles my skin, and the pressure between my legs increases. He’s now hovering over me, and it’s a lot of sensation. Everywhere.
He lifts his eyes as he flat-tongues my nipple, just like he’d do if his face was between my legs instead. His grin is pure evil when he closes his mouth over the tight peak and does the magic swirl with his tongue. I gasp and shudder when I feel his teeth.
“You’re getting close, aren’t you?” His voice is muffled by my boob, but I still understand.
“Uh-huh.”
He circles my clit, and I’m done. I try to lift my hips, but I can’t do much with the way he’s partly on top of me. It doesn’t matter anyway, since I’m coming like I haven’t had an orgasm in a week. In reality, it’s been less than sixteen hours. We had sex before I went to work this morning. Like I said, Randy likes to get his fuck on. A lot.
He releases my nipple from his mouth and sits back on his knees again. “That sounded like it felt good.”
“So good,” I mumble. “You should give me another.”
“You think so, huh?” He captures my still-sensitive clit between two knuckles.
I jolt with the sensation, lifting my hips off the couch with a yelp.
“Too much?” He doesn’t take the pressure off, waiting for my reply instead.
I shake my head and take a few deep breaths.