“Oh, Opal, you’re so fucking wet,” he says, his voice suffused with lust and appreciation.
“Scott,” I whimper when he strokes me back and forth. “Please . . . just . . .”
The grip in my hair tightens. “Just what?” he taunts. The finger pulls forward to press slippery circles to my clit and I gasp, my eyelids sliding shut.
“Uh uh, El. Keep your eyes on me.”
I pry them open and our gazes clash before they both slide down our bodies to witness my breasts rising and falling with my ragged breaths and then to his fat cock resting against my abdomen, smearing precome across my skin. It’s obscene and thrilling and divine.
Something akin to a gasp spills from my lips as he slowly pushes his finger into me and I clench around the invasion. My grasp on his arms intensifies as he pulls out only to return with two fingers. The stretch is delicious. Over and over, he slides in and out of me with an exasperating amount of patience, his mouth nipping at my lips and jaw and throat.
“Scott,” I whisper urgently, my head falling to his shoulder. “Come on, please.”
“Please what, beautiful?” he replies, his thumb nudging at my clit.
Two can play at this game. I slide a hand down his chest to gently caress his cock, and a shot of triumph hits my bloodstream as a strangled sound fights its way out of his throat.
“Please, Scott.” I grip him tighter. “I want you inside me.”
“El,” he groans. “We really doing this?”
Irrational panic flares in my chest. How can he doubt it? “God, yes.”
A moment later his hands are disengaging themselves to reach for his wallet and a condom. I watch greedily as he rips the package open and rolls it down his length.
From there, lust takes over; our lips and hands are everywhere. We struggle a bit, both of us having different ideas of how this is going to go down. In the end, his strength wins out, and I’m both ecstatic and disappointed to find myself bent over the kitchen island, his palm in the middle of my back holding me down, and his dick notched at my entrance.
I’m practically keening with anticipation as I claw at the counter top, wishing I could see his face, that I could touch him, that I could watch that glorious cock slide into me.
He surges into my slippery pussy and it’s so good that I almost come on the spot, the length and breadth of him stealing my breath.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispers, stalling out inside of me. “You good?”
“Yes,” I moan, my pussy fluttering around him.
The hand on my back slides up to curl around my shoulder, the other grips my hip, both of them squeezing before he shifts back a little and then . . . Sinks. Himself. Deep.
I make not a sound, my mouth open in a parody of a scream of surprise and delectable discomfort. The feeling of fullness is irresistible to my lust-ridden mind. So. Incredibly. Good.
“Too much?” he huffs out, the strain in his voice obvious.
“No,” I gasp.
The slow retreat of him is almost as incredible as the thrust that follows, parting my flesh, driving heaven right into me. Over and over again. And after all the foreplay, that heaven quickly doubles down on itself, allowing the pinnacle to rush me from all sides, splintering me apart in ecstasy in no time at all. The strength of my orgasm compels a strangled scream from me as my body clenches around him again and again.
“Fuck, yeah,” he grunts, still sinking his dick into me at a slow and steady pace.
His continued strokes set off round after round of luscious aftershocks, leaving me utterly spent. Here, spread out on the counter, limp, moaning, taking his cock is quite possibly the most wanton experience of my life. The embers of my next climax are slowly kindling themselves into open flames, but when he hisses, “Oh, shit, gonna come,” all I can think is yes! yes! yes! The knowledge that I’m making him come, that he’s finding completion buried deep inside of me is all-consuming – there’s nothing I want more.
When he finally stills, his heavy body collapses onto me, covering my back. We pant together like we’ve just finished a marathon until slowly, groaning as he goes, he pushes up and away from me.
Over my shoulder, I watch him take a deep breath then exhale, his head tipped to the ceiling, eyes closed, the earlier tension in his shoulders gone. I did that to him, I think, delighted and full of pride, but that quickly disappears when his chin dips back down. The devastation on his face as he pulls the condom off is alarming.
I get myself upright and open the cupboard door under the sink so he can toss the condom in the trash. “You okay?” I ask softly, reaching up to cup his cheek.
Instead of answering, he leans into my touch.
Unsure of what to do next, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Let’s go lie down for a while.”
Taking his hand, I lead him into my bedroom, a little surprised by how compliant he’s being, especially when he gets into bed without a word. It’s definitely a relief when he holds the covers up, inviting me to slide in beside him. Not that I was expecting rejection or anything, but I won’t deny that I was a little worried he’d regret our actions. Pulling me close, he settles my head on his shoulder, and the feeling of rightness that washes over me is mirrored by his contented sigh.
Silence descends on us, but it isn’t uncomfortable, it’s peaceful. The post-orgasm glow has me firmly in its grip; my limbs are weak and my mind is sluggish in a most agreeable way. And after a short while, I feel his breaths even out, making the glow burn brighter because he feels enough at ease to fall asleep beside me.
As my brain slowly comes back on line, I bask in the wonder of it all. Scott and I . . . did it. It. And it hadn’t felt cheap or dirty like so much of my past. I feel wanted, and my heart is about to burst with sappy happiness. I mean, holy crap, Scott McCarthy and I did it and now he’s naked and sleeping in my bed. I haven’t felt this light, this content, in so long.
When I feel him stir under me some time later, I lift my head from his shoulder to watch him wake, loving the soft, relaxed look on his face.
“Hey,” he rasps.
“Hey.”
He reaches a hand out to trace a line across my cheekbone. “How long was I out?”
“Not long,” I whisper, melting under his touch. “Maybe an hour or so.” His hand flops back to the bed and he stares up at the ceiling.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask hesitantly. The skin under his eyes is bruised with fatigue and I wonder again what happened tonight.
He focuses back on me, a slow grin starting to form on his lips.
“Oh, no,” I say quickly, realizing he’s misunderstood my meaning. “Not about that. I mean, uh . . . I mean, about what happened.” His brows tick up even farther and his smug grin expands, the bastard. I prop myself up on my elbow as I push at his chest playfully. “I mean about what happened before you got here?”
His teasing expression dims, and suddenly I’m uncertain if I’m supposed to be asking this kind of a question. Is this thing between us meant to be superficial? I don’t want that, but maybe he does. My brain ping pongs between all the ways I can play this . . . and then I balk. I don’t want to play this at all. No games. If he can’t handle my asking questions, it’s better to know now.