He withdraws his fingers from my mouth, murmuring an approval as I obediently lean forward and place my chest onto the top of the mattress. And the funny thing is most of the time I’d tell a guy to screw off if he was going to give me orders, deny me my orgasm, and not let me touch—this girl likes to give just as good as she gets—but there is something about Hawkin that makes me want to earn the orgasm he gives me.
“Damn, woman,” he murmurs the moment the finger I’ve just wet with my mouth slides between the already slick lips of my sex. My body is so on edge from this foreplay that there is no way he’ll be able to stop my orgasm because the beginning of it is already bearing down on me like a freight train and he’s barely touched me.
I feel him against my knees and it takes me a minute and a glance down to realize that he sat down on the floor, his back against the foot of the bed I’m bent over so that his face is right where it needs to be. He positions his hands so that when he grabs the roundness of my ass and pulls gently, the tips of his fingers skim over the backside of my cleft. The sensation is strangely arousing but it’s taken to all new heights when his mouth closes over my pleasure. His tongue splits me and slides down to where his fingers have now pressed their way inside me.
The cry falls from my lips, my hands fist, and I work the tank top that’s still holding my arms hostage up some so that I can bend my arms and fist them in the top of his hair. Pleasure swamps me, owns me, and has me begging for more. “Oh God Hawke.” They’re the first words that I speak in I don’t know how long but they’re all I need to say because I’m swamped with sensations.
I’m an it takes time for me to come girl but hell if he just hasn’t blown that all to smithereens because the way his mouth is working my clit mixed with the slow slide of his fingers in and out has me climbing that peak faster than ever before. I can’t catch my thoughts when usually I’m having to push them away as his tongue owns every inch of sensitized flesh between my folds.
The room fills with the commands he vocalizes, the vibration of his voice only adding to his delicious torment, my labored breathing and the slick sound of my wetness being expertly manipulated. My body begins to tense, that slow flush of heat beginning to bathe my body in its warm glow as my orgasm rises from the depths of my body. I start moving my hips, grinding back and forth onto his fingers and tongue, his previous decree of edging me out lost in my quest for release, so just as I can feel it wash over me, all movement from him ceases.
I gasp out and squeeze my eyes shut to try to will my orgasm to fruition, but without my hands or his, nothing’s going to happen.
“Hawkin!” I say his name like a curse into the sexed-up air and it earns me a taunting laugh from him.
I clench my muscles, desperate for so much more of him than just this orgasm. The thought scares me momentarily but I can’t think about it right now. I need to focus on the here and now and not the mess my heart will inevitably be in after he casts me aside.
I step back from where he’s positioned between the confines of my legs and his hands slide up the outside of my thighs to my hips to my waist as he stands. He reaches my neck, and I look up and meet his gaze for the first time in what feels like forever since we arrived at my house.
The look in his eyes—burning desire and the wild need to sate it—makes me feel like he wants to take every single part of me, memorize me, use me, and then start all over again, and hell if I’m not down with this game. I want his kiss, his body on top of mine, his hands braced on either side of my head while he’s driving into me.
And I want it now.
I step forward this time, my flanks into his, his legs pressed against the edge of the bed, and we just stand there. Our torsos are touching chests to thighs, our breaths mingle, and our eyes speak a language exclusively our own. I want you. Take me now. Fuck me. Wreck me. Make me yours.
A mutual exchange of needs and desires that I initiate when I lean into him and brush my lips to his. His hands slide around my back and pull me into him harder as our mouths part and tongues unite. I feel my heart slip a little toward the edge of no return and lose myself in the taste of my pleasure on his tongue and how there’s something so strangely arousing about it that I just want more of what he’s offering me. His hands move over my bared skin like his tongue does—skillful, urgent, a little rough, and a lot needy—and hell if the mixture of motions isn’t a potent cocktail of desire that we’re getting drunk on.
He groans my name into my mouth. I want to pull away, strip off his boxer briefs, and taste him, but right now he’s savoring me and there’s something endearing about it. As much as I want to order him to give me what I want like he has me, it’s not possible because my independent streak is out the damn window right along with my control.
I’m all for equality between a man and a woman but right now this woman doesn’t care about being equal, she just wants to come.
I know without a doubt that Hawkin owns the keys to that toe-curling orgasm I’ve been without for some time and hell if I’m not going to submit so he can find the lock and use his key to unleash it.
Our kiss grows possessive. I writhe against him, trying to tell him that I need him to push me off that ledge I’m walking precariously on just like he said I would be. His hands slide down my biceps and remove my tank top from my elbows.
And the minute my arms are released from their cotton confines, it’s on.
My hands go immediately to the back of his neck, fingers tugging in his hair, pulling him into me. My hands match the urgency of his and yet we still stand there and express our desire with our hands and mouths when so many other men would have already been in, out, and done by now.