The man was profusely apologetic as he backed away. I watched as he returned to his table, the woman he’d been with lit into him, and it was clear the tongue lashing he got would make an impression. He’d looked pretty hang-dogged after that.
But now, Aaron walks me to my door as he has the past two nights. He has been so low pressure I’ve been wondering if I’ve read him wrong. Maybe he only wants friendship, or maybe he’s being so cautious with me because he’s waiting on me to give him a sign.
All I really know for sure is I’ve been thinking about having sex with him way too much. Like I’m obsessing about it, to be honest.
I pull my keys out of my purse, preparing to invite Aaron in as I usually do. The night before last he accepted, and he came in to watch a movie with me. I’d ended up falling asleep on his shoulder.
Last night, he’d declined, stating he had an early workout planned with Tacker.
Before I can get the invitation out, though, Aaron takes my face in his hands—and I love so much when he does that because it puts me completely under his control—and presses his mouth to mine. As usually happens when this man kisses me, my circuits fry and go haywire. I have a hard time thinking, all rational thought melting into a puddle of goo. As always, my hands go around his neck to hang on as I simply kiss him back.
This is different. Usually, when we start to make out, it’s right before our evening is concluding and he knows he’s only going to let it go so far before he puts a stop to it. We’ve been getting bolder and bolder in our touches at night, and I know he leaves in some physical discomfort.
But Aaron initiates this kiss before we’ve even decided whether our date is over or will continue inside. The prospect that maybe he’s done waiting excites me, and I press in closer.
He moves a hand to the back of my head, grips a handful of hair, and slides his mouth to my neck. I shiver at the touch, his lips so damn skillful the barest touch causes a cascading ripple effect throughout me.
“Do you want to come in?” I gasp as his teeth scrape along the muscle running along the side of my neck.
His tone is low, soft, and barely audible. “You know if I come inside tonight, I’m going to take my shot at getting in your panties, right? I’m tired of wondering if my kisses make you wet.”
Oh, God.
Oh. My. God.
My legs turn rubbery. I’ve never heard Aaron be this direct before. He’s always been such a gentleman, keeping our conversations light and easy. He makes me laugh, and now he has me wanting to weep with desire. His dirty talk is so shocking I freeze with inaction. I have no clue how to even respond to that, except my body is demanding I accept his challenge. I can feel it right between my legs, the fact my panties are indeed damp right now is a testament.
All I can do is nod my understanding of the situation. It’s my tacit permission saying I’m more than willing for him to take that shot.
I take a deep breath and as I let it out, I turn from him to unlock my door. My mind races as I insert the key. Did I make my bed this morning? Are the sheets fresh? Should I excuse myself to brush my teeth first?
I open the door, then step across the threshold. Should I offer to open a bottle of wine? Do I bring out the Scrabble board?
No, wait… that’s horrible foreplay. Scrabble? Christ, you’re a damn dork, Clarke.
And oh my God… does he have condoms? Because I don’t…
Surely he does.
Think, Clarke. Think.
Okay, let’s start with wine… a glass to help me relax.
I turn to face Aaron, who’s shutting the door behind him. When I open my mouth to ask if he prefers red or white, he immediately fills it with his tongue.
Aaron is on me, inside of me. His hands hold tight to my waist as he turns me… backs me into the wall… and pins me there with the deepest, sexiest, most spine-tingling kiss I’ve ever received in my life. My fingers clutch his shirt, tightening and twisting the cotton between my claws for sheer leverage as I try to kiss him back with my best moves.
A low rumble sounds in his chest, then his mouth is on my neck, kissing down to my shoulder. His hands go around my back to slide under my shirt and stroke my skin.
Aaron’s mouth is magic, moving from my neck to my mouth. His tongue enthralls me, making me a slave.
My pulse hammers as he completely overwhelms me. Right here in my living room, pressed against the wall.
Somehow, his hands find their way to my lower back, then around to my hips where his skillful hands start to pull up the simple cotton skirt I’m wearing. Cool air hits my thighs, then Aaron’s palm is pressed right to my core.
I gasp, my hips shooting forward, and I can’t help the tiny grinding motion I make. Aaron laughs darkly at my response. With his breath on my neck causing shivers, his finger works under the elastic of my panties and strokes through my wet folds.
“Oh God,” I moan, my head falling back and thunking hard against the wall.
A long, thick finger slides into me and my muscles contract hard around him, gripping and sucking him in deeper.
“Christ, Clarke,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “So responsive, baby.”
He has no clue. I’ve never felt anything like this before, and I haven’t the foggiest idea why. He’s not the first man I’ve passionately made out with, nor the first to finger me.
I suspect it has something to do with the total package that is simply Aaron Wylde. The player who usually never gives the same woman his attention twice. The man who has listened to my darkest, most humiliating secret, and validated my feelings. The celebrity who is as down to earth as I could ever imagine someone famous to be.
And finally, the guy who has taken his time to make me so ready for this moment that I’m ready to climb him like a tree so I can ride his hand.
“More,” I manage to squeak out in a plaintive request or through harsh wheezing. I’m not sure which, but it didn’t sound pretty.
I get another dark laugh from Aaron, then another finger. His mouth ravages me again in a kiss so deep I can only hang on while letting him do his worst.
It’s when his thumb comes into play, alternately strumming my clit between the deep pump of his fingers inside me, that I start to get a little crazy.
“Aaron,” I moan, turning my face away from his kiss. “Please… I need you inside me.”
“Not even close to getting there, Clarke,” he mutters, his hand gripping my hair and holding my head still so he can claim my lips again.
Not even close? How can he say that? My body is ready. I have barely touched him, yet I can feel his thick erection intermittently pressing into my belly as my lower half wiggles and squirms around his hand between my legs.
It’s usually at this point when a man gets me worked up that I beg for him to get inside me… and he obliges.
Aaron doesn’t seem to be in any rush at all, though, and it makes me realize he’s definitely different from anyone I’ve ever been with. He’s not into instant gratification, and there’s something so alpha, so sexy, about that I can feel my orgasm starting to brew just from the revelation.
Well, because of what his fingers and thumb are doing, too, but still… the knowledge Aaron is so strong, capable, and in control manipulates my body just as much as his actions.
I cry out when Aaron stretches me with a third finger, pushing them in deep and when he pulls them out, it’s to concentrate all that wetness he just pulled from me right at my clit. His fingers rub and flick and pinch. He flutters them quickly, exerting just enough pressure to keep my orgasm elusive, which forces me into a much more willing participant to torture than I care to be.