I have no idea what I’m doing, but it seems to be working, and I’m gonna keep going with what I’m doing.
The fabric catches on the tip of his cock, and Conor eases it over and shoves it down his muscular thighs, tossing it onto the floor to join the other pieces of our clothing.
I pull in a shuddering breath.
Whoa. I can’t…I can’t even begin to describe how he looks right now. At this moment. But I’m going to try. Because—holy wow. He’s magnificent. His broad shoulders, the biceps a perfect curve, block my view of the kitchen. The candlelight casts shadows across his skin, making smoky gray shapes dance and flicker across his chest as if it enjoys playing across its surface. Like I want to.
Then there’s the nicely delineated pecs, with a sprinkling of dark red hair decorating their smooth planes and marching down the bumps of his abs to…yeah, wow, the proudest and largest cock I’ve ever seen. Boy, am I not kidding.
It jerks a little as if my staring has caught its attention.
Shit.
I’m staring.
I dart my gaze back to his, and he’s staring too. At me. With eyes that are hooded. And filled with desire.
For me.
Holy shit. Heat rushes across my skin, and a zing happens down in my girly parts.
But it’s clear he’s letting me control what’s going to happen between the two of us, which I really, really appreciate.
I can do this. I can have casual sex with him and not get all…emotional. Walls in place? Check. I snap the metaphorical elastic on my big girl panties and edge forward on the couch. “Can I touch you?”
He pulls in a shuddering breath, the action tightening his muscles all over. “Please, yeah.”
Thick, eager anticipation swirls in the air between us as I reach forward and touch the tip, velvet smooth and warm. His whole body tenses, and a low moan escapes that he quickly swallows.
God, that’s sexy.
I circle my fingers around his shaft and skim them down and back up, barely touching the hot, silky skin. Like my fingers are mapping the contours.
Then I give a little squeeze, and his hand shoots out and holds my wrist.
“Claire,” he chokes out.
I look up at him. “Yes?” My breaths are shallow.
He swallows and looks into my eyes. “What is it you’d be wanting?” His voice is low, and it holds so much in those words—anticipation, trepidation, need, heat. The low pitch, the cadence, the words, and the meaning riding them, they all seep inside, giving me my answer.
What do I want? “You.”
It’s as if I lit the fuse to a bomb that just hit its payload, because he launches forward, pushing me back against the couch. My breath leaves me in a rush. His whole body covers mine, the soft nap of the couch fabric a cool embrace against the skin of my back. The playing cards crinkle beneath me.
Holy shit. This reaction. It’s for me.
His mouth crashes into mine, feverish, and all other sensation flees except the magnificent feel of his lips crushing mine, hot, urgent. If I ever even allowed myself the fantasy of imagining our first kiss, I would have guessed it’d be like this—up front, impatient, rough. Our mouths are taking swipes at each other, and I fist my hands in that luscious red hair of his to try to hold his head still, to get the right angle. Which works, and our tongues tangle. The taste of him—carnality laced with bourbon—bursts along my taste buds, lighting me up, and I soak it in. Swirling heat blooms in my chest and arrows down, pooling in my sex.
Our breaths are coming fast, our frantic mouth tango making it difficult to catch air. I want to be on top, though. Not that I don’t like the delicious feel of him stretched out over me. Believe me, I do—boy, do I—but I want to direct this, especially if it’s my only chance to be with him.
We girls have needs too, and in my experience, this is the only way I can be sure they’re met. And, yeah, I want them met. With him. I glance sideways—there’s enough gap between the couch and the oversized, footrest-slash-coffee table. I pinch his side.
“Roll,” I gasp against his lips.
He jerks in surprise, holding himself up by his elbow. Which gives me room and leverage to lock my legs around his and roll us both off the couch.
He lands on the carpet with a startled oof, me splayed across all that delicious, hard muscle that makes up Conor’s gorgeous body. I rise up and adjust myself against his hard girth. Outside the window, which I have a clear view of, the world is gray, rain lashing like ropes against the window. I’m still sporting my boring white panties, but his thickness, and his heat, is pressing hard against my core right through the cotton. Gawd.
I rock forward and back, smoothing my hands along his work-of-art chest, his tiny hairs tickling across my palms. His strong, broad hands fly to my waist and brush up my stomach until he’s cupping my boobs.
He flicks a thumb against both. And that heady heat shoots through me again, from my nipples down to where I’m starting to ache for him.
I gasp and arch forward, giving him better access for the boob-flicking, because OMG. He caresses and circles the tips, working them into tight, hardened points. And boy, does that do it for me. I scrape my nails across his nipples, and he bucks under me.
Then his hot hands are back at my waist, his grip sure and strong, and he’s dragging me up, my core rubbing deliciously across his hard abs on its short journey.
Conor’s eyes are hooded and glazed with lust. When he’s pulled me close enough, he latches his mouth around a nipple and sucks hard. I jerk against him, as if zapped by electricity. Heat rockets through me, flushing my skin.
Shit. Wow. This reaction is unusual for me. Usually I just feel a pleasant hum. If I’m lucky. Sometimes I don’t feel much of anything at all, except a desire to please. But this? I’m like a live wire that he’s playing with, and I’m just a jerky ball of need. And want.
And I ache.
Who is this person?
If most people feel this all the time when they have sex, no wonder everyone’s always after some.
He pulls away, then curls his tongue out and flicks my other nipple, and I’m squirming, aching for him to tug and suck, not tease. But he keeps flicking and circling, which winds me up, yes, but also isn’t quite enough. And he knows it. I can see the battle in his gaze—wanting to tease me to draw out my pleasure but also wanting to give us what we both want. Now.
Then he flips us over, bumping us against the cushioning of the overgrown footrest. His eyes are pools of heat and want, and I’m sure I’m reflecting back the same.
“Conor,” I whisper.
Fuck, I want this guy bad. Always have. Maybe that’s why other guys haven’t really turned my crank—they weren’t him.