I mewled, not wanting foreplay or fingers or tongues. I wanted him, every single inch of him inside every space I contained.
He paused at the sound, slowing his pace, teasing my center with one, broad fingertip. “You’re impatient,” he rasped.
“Please,” I whispered as he lowered his torso, settling between my legs. “It’s been too long. I don’t need all that.”
“I disagree,” he said, hot breath against my core, palm spread over the flat of my stomach, legs spread and resting on his broad shoulders.
And the moment his lips closed over me, I disagreed too.
My awareness shrank to the point where he was latched to me, my nerves zinging toward the point of contact. Heat in my thighs, pooled low in my belly, a drawing from deep within me with every flick of his tongue, every stroke of his fingers. My hips flexed into him, against him, and he met every move with equal and opposite force.
Equals and opposites.
He gave, and I took. And as he gave, he took his pleasure—the rumble of his moan into me, the tremble of his shoulders, the blind, wild intensity in which he shifted his jaw, gripped my thigh, tasted me as if it were for himself far more than for me. As if he were the lucky one and not me, which was the boldest of lies.
It was a slow worship of my body, exaltation delivered by his tongue and hands. The tight drum of my heart battered my ribs with every second. My lungs locked, neck extending in offering. My back arched, thighs taut and shaking. His mouth—his mouth—with its own design, its own directive. The gathering of my senses to the place where we were joined. With a hard, deep draw, I came like thunder, a dark, rumbling division of self, a separation and conjoining at once.
The stop-start of my heart marked the beginning of the fall back to myself, galloping pulse slowing to a trot, then a lazy, deep shuffle as his tongue traced slow circles in my rippling flesh, a savoring. My fingers relaxed in his hair, smoothing toward his ears, settling for his shoulders as I rose, whispering his name. The sound drew him from the place he’d occupied in his mind and between my legs, arms shifting to plant his hands on either side of my hips as he rose, meeting my lips with a crash of desire. My fingers found his face, traced his jaw, splayed the angles, savored the scrape of his stubble against the softness of my palms. And my lips delighted in his, gratified and pliant and desperate for more.
The kiss broke with the roll of his forehead against mine, breath heavy and mingling, eyes closed, my hands on his face, his body hovering before me on hand and knee.
“You were right,” I said.
He backed away so he could see me, one brow arched to match his tilted smile. “I usually am.”
I laughed, shoving one massive shoulder uselessly.
“You gonna tell me what I was right about?”
“If you’re going to tease me, I might make you work for that answer.”
That brow climbed higher as he inched closer. “Careful what you wish for.”
And when he kissed me again, it was with the determination that he’d get the job done well.
He forged forward, laying me down with the motion, settling between my thighs but keeping his hips away.
A flash of petulance sparked in me—did he not want me as badly as I wanted him?—before I realized he still had jeans on. And, lips in motion, my hands slid down his body and to his belt.
He shifted into my hands at the jingle of his buckle, then the flick of his button and zip of his pants, and my hands slid into the V, reaching for him until both hands were full. He thrust into my hands, his crown brushing my belly, his body still too far away. One hand stayed where it was, stroking the length of him, testing its size, and the other hand slid around his hip, hooking the waistband to give it a tug.
It barely moved—his ass was too big and round and strong for a casual slipping off of pants. A chuckle from his nose before he broke the kiss, his hand moving to my face, then my collarbone, then my breast in passing. He knelt between my legs, his eyes roaming my body as his hands did their work. And I watched those hands, hands that tilled earth, harnessing it to grow what he wished. Strong, square hands with long fingers and rough palms that rid him of his jeans, but not before he pulled a condom out of his wallet.
And there he was, every naked inch of Kash Bennet. Corded thighs dusted with dark hair. Narrow hips with hard ridges. Those hands tore open the packet, griped his base, rolling the condom down with a swift stroke and an answering pump. My pulse fluttered, breasts rising and falling rapidly, heavy and aching. An echoing ache deep in the very core of me, a drawing of muscles that knew how he would feel in their grip and who needed to feel it.
Needed him.
But not before he descended, pressing the full length of his body against the full length of mine, lips on a track for mine, undeterred. This kiss was different—deeper but not by force. By weight of emotion, of desire. It was reverent anticipation, quiet demand. It was a reckoning, a calculation of map points—mine and his—and the determination to close that space by the quickest means: a line.
And that line between us would be breached, or so help us both.
That kiss was a meeting, a linking of self, a connection of body and of hearts. It was chemistry, alive and deep, the programming unbreakable. And I should have been afraid of it.
Stupidly, I wasn’t.
The thought faded with the slip of his tongue and the feel of his fingers in my hair. The weight of his body, the pleasurable helplessness of mine. His immense thigh nudging mine wider, the shift of his hips. The slick press of his crown against the hot center of me. The break of the kiss, the brush of our noses, our foreheads. The sound of our breath, thick with anticipation.
A flex of his hips, and he sank into me.
A gasp from my lips. A trembling breath from his.
Our bodies locked, frozen in a long moment of fullness and completeness.
His body rolled in a knowing, willful wave, pulling out only to fill me up again with a jolt. Another wave, a flex and release, and he pressed the place I needed him so desperately with a slam and a grind. I shifted beneath him, wanting to meet him, match him, but I found immediately that he knew better than I did. That he could do exactly what I needed without my help. And that he didn’t want my help. Kash fucked me like he had something to prove—not to himself and not to me. For me. That this was what it should be, that I should settle for nothing less.
And I let him teach me the lesson as he saw fit.
His arms caged me, fingers in my soaked hair, lips on mine. I swallowed his breath, felt the thump of his heart through the drum of his chest. His body waved, and I rode that wave, every crest, every deepening of pressure, every speed of rhythm bringing me closer.
I broke the kiss, turning my face to the sky, hanging on to him like an anchor in a storm. But he was the storm, unbridled in my arms, raw and wild and beautiful. His focus was a devouring of me, a feasting for him, the delivery of my pleasure too great for him to contain. And that consuming pleasure he felt consumed me. He surged in me, and overcome, I surged in answer. And we were both capsized.
We came together, a cry from my lips and a rumbling groan from deep in his chest, our bodies riding those waves until they were slaked, slowing at the shore.
His lips were buried in my neck, kissing sweetly, slowly. But I needed those lips on mine so I could say what I needed without words. So I could explain the depth of my gratitude and appreciation for every second with him in the best way I knew.