“You have to use your words, Sugar, or I can’t do it.”
I look up into his brilliant blue eyes, searching for the smug asshole I’ve been dealing with for weeks. That person isn’t there. This is just the guy who wants to make me feel good.
“I want more, Bass,” I tell him, arching my back. “Please.”
He reacts instantly, his big thumbs circle my nipples over the bra, then dip beneath to roll over the hard peaks. The rough pads of his thumbs grazing over my bare nipples sends a shockwave between my legs, warm and wet. I rotate my hips, desperate to relieve some of the pressure, which forces my ass to grind against his erection. He shudders behind me and lifts his hips into the motion.
Everything about this moment feels good—right. The pacing, the amount of pressure. When he’d told me that he could take his time and do it slow, I didn’t really believe him. I wanted to, but I’ve watched Bass lose control more than once. What would make this different? But here we are, my body on fire as he continues to taunt and tease my nipples.
He stills when I reach for one of his hands, letting me drag it away, down my belly. “What…?” he dumbly asks when it lands on the inside of my thigh.
Instead of answering, I guide it right to my hot, aching center.
He drags in a deep, shuddering breath. “Oh, fuck me.”
I grind his hand against me, bucking up against it, and the sound I make might be embarrassing, but I can hardly care. The friction and warmth are perfect, and if his fingers twitch, then I don’t hold it against him.
I drop my knees open and rest there for a moment, and there’s no way he can’t feel me throbbing against his palm, aching and desperate. Slowly, I pull my hand away, leaving him there, letting him take control of it, of making me feel good.
These hands can do a lot more than hurt, Sugar.
His words float back to me from that night, and I can still hear them perfectly—have been secretly obsessed with them ever since they were spoken. My hips rock up against his still palm, giving me a flash of his big hand against my black panties.
“Come on,” I say, straining up to press my mouth to his slack jaw. “I can take it.”
His blue eyes are hooded, fixed to the space between my legs, watching his own hand against me. When he finally moves it, fingertips brushing over the bundle of nerves hot under my damp panties, I moan.
His eyes flick to mine. I’m not sure what he sees there, but suddenly he’s all business, fingers massaging expertly against my clit, watching me squirm against him. “Christ, you’re so fucking hot, Sugar. I can feel it—how hot and wet you are. You like it, right? You want me to keep going? I can stop if you—”
“If you stop,” I grind out, “I will cut your fucking balls off, Bass.”
“Well, yeah,” he says, like this is entirely reasonable, and then takes my mouth in a hot, slippery kiss.
I already feel too hot for the blanket, for my clothes, but the way he presses against me sends my temperature higher and higher, belly coiling tight as my hips move with his hand. His other hand palms at my tit again, and it’s amazing, the way he’s able to have his arms around me like this, and all I feel is the white-hot spike of want that’s driving me crazy.
Every time his fingers dip low, I can feel how soaked my panties are. I know he can feel it, too. I know that every time he drags his fingers back up, it’s because he wants me to chase them, to take what I want.
I know when his fingers dip beneath the fabric of my panties that I’m excruciatingly impatient. “Yes,” I say before he can ask. “Please, just—”
He watches me, eyebrows knitted tight as his fingers slip between my folds. “Goddamn.”
I don’t know what makes me shudder more—the ragged, strained note in his voice, or the feeling of his rough fingers sliding up and down my pussy. He moves them slow, testing, almost like he’s getting to know it, acquainting himself with the feel of me. On one of those long passes, I buck my hips up, encouraging, and he hisses out a breath when the tip of his finger sinks inside me.
He goes still and I kick a foot out for leverage to push him deeper. “More,” I gasp, hands fisting in the blanket. “What the fuck do you need, an engraved invitation? Just take it slow, okay?”
There’s a rumble from deep in his chest, and like I ask, he goes slowly, sliding his finger inside. “Is this okay?” he asks, pausing. I nod. “Words, Sugar.”
“Yes, it’s okay.” More than I thought, I like the way the pressure feels as he fills me up, pushing against the walls. He takes my approval to heart and slides in further, not stopping until it hits the knuckle. He shifts around a bit, curling his other hand around my ribs, holding me close as his finger retreats and dips back in. It doesn’t make sense. The way he’s holding me… if this were another person or another time, it’d be sending me running away. But right now, all my body seems to care about is the hot throb between my legs.
Sebastian fucks me with his finger, deep and slow, the heel of his palm pressing against my clit on each thrust. I’m such a fucking mess of ‘almost there’ and ‘don’t stop’ that when he slides a second finger in, all I can think is how much I want more. But as much as I’m making sounds—god, the most embarrassing fucking little cries—I know he’s a mess, too. I can feel him hard beneath me, moving his hips in tandem with mine.
“I told you I could make you feel good.” He groans, breaths coming as choppy as my own when his lips rest against the shell of my ear, voice like gravel. “Bet you could take it. We can—just like this. I have a condom.” I don’t even have time to really think about it before he hastily adds, “Fuck, forget I said that. I just wanna make you come. Can you come for me, Sugar?”
With a sharp gasp, I slam my hand over his, pressing him hard against my clit, deep inside me. If I thought my cries were embarrassing, then the way I shake apart as I fall off the precipice is truly next level. He clutches me against his chest, the muscles in his forearm rippling as his hand works between my legs, yanking my orgasm from me like a willingly stolen thing.
“Perfect,” he rasps into my ear. “So fucking perfect. You take it so good. That feel good, baby?”
I never would have thought listening to a guy talk during this would make it all better, but it does. Listening to Sebastian’s want, his desire, is ridiculously hot and I whine as the vestiges of my orgasm ripple through me, surging and waning at the motion of his hand. I bat at it when it becomes too much, too sensitive, but alternately feel the loss acutely when he takes it away.
Sebastian didn’t come, I know he didn’t, but he deflates just like if he had, the two of us sprawled out in the back of his car, trying to catch our breath. The windows have all fogged over and the car smells thick with sex.
It takes approximately three minutes for that hand he has wrapped around my ribs to start feeling less like one of those good sex things, and more like something that’s trapping me.
He doesn’t fight when I spring upright, almost braining myself on the roof. “You okay?” he asks, reaching out to touch me, but thinking better of it at the last second. “Did I—was it too much?”
But I shake my head, turning to give him a tired smile. “No, it was… God. It was perfect.”