They got lost in long, slow, drugging kisses, and long slow, drugging caresses. Kissing just to be kissing. Touching just to touch.
Suddenly it felt serious and right, and it unnerved her.
Britt finally pulled away and tucked her head beneath his chin. And then she sighed and gave a single little shimmy.
And just like that her dress slid from her into a pool at her ankles.
She was nude.
And he was speechless.
“Damn, Britt.” His voice was a rasp.
She took him by the hand. “Show me how you’ll do it lying down.”
Luckily there wasn’t far to go, because the house was little, and so was her bedroom.
She sat down on her bed and pulled him down over her. He practically ripped his lovely shirt off and flung it with violence, as though it was trying to keep him away from her on purpose, across the room, where it settled on a lamp. They were finally skin to skin.
The pleasure of her nipples chafing his bare skin was decadent. She rubbed against him like a cat, and half sighed, half moaned shamelessly, and he hissed in an oath, part endearment, part pleasure. Her fingers followed the seams between the gorgeous etched quadrants of muscle on his chest, and her lips and her tongue and her breath followed her fingers, and she savored the feel of stomach leaping and the hoarse rush of his breath. “Christ.Britt.” He made her name sound synonymous withneed. Orwant.
She drew her tongue all down that seam that divided his ribs into muscle while his hands destroyed Casey’s updo and trailed her neck and ears in a way that made her wilder still, and she nipped and kissed all down the ferny trail of hair that vanished into his jeans, and then she dragged her mouth teasingly over the bulge in his jeans, and turned her cheek to rub over it there.
And now he was writhing and arching and attempting to reach his buttons. “Jesus... help me, you wench...”
She laughed and did the honors with a deft tug, and the buttons all rippled open easily. With some less than graceful but ultimately effective fish-out-of-water thrashing they finally got him out of his jeans and underwear and completely nude and his big, lovely hard cock was hers for the tasting.
But he rolled her over so swiftly she gasped.
It was his turn to show her what he could do with his hands and mouth. Slow, strategic, clever, knowing, relentless. In moments she was enslaved. His thumbs rocking and chafing over her nipples, sending fine bolts of delicious lightning through her, until she was more lust than human. His fingers slid between her thighs and feathered, teasing, over the satiny, sensitive skin there, skating just shy of where she was throbbing like a freaking jungle drum, because he was a bastard and clearly he wanted to hear her cravenly beg.
“J. T....please...you son of a...”
And then he got there and found her hot and wet and she forgave him the torture when he proved he was absolutely maestro with his fingers, and she moaned shamelessly, moving in rhythm with him. “Yes,” she affirmed. “Dear God,yes.”
And then suddenly threaded his fingers through hers and pinned them back and he was over her body, and with one deft knee he had her legs apart and she rose up to lock them around his back.
He thrust in, and moved into her slowly, slowly. His eyes were nearly black and their gazes fused with such intensity, for an instant she literally forgot who was who.
It was clear he was going to try for finesse. He withdrew, and teased both of them by sliding his cock lightly over her wet curls, and she sucked in a long breath from the electric bliss of it, then cursed him for the torture.
And then he was inside her again, and she rose up to take him deeply. He eased back, and then plunged, then eased back, and slowly sank into her again, each time uncovering layers of bliss she really never dreamed existed, each one of those layers building upon the next. Her head thrashed backward and her hips arched up, and she freed her hands from his because she needed to urge him on.
She dragged her fingers over his chest, trailed them over his narrow white hips, slid her palms into the lovely little scoops of muscle on his ass to pull him hard against her. Nipped at his nipples, and dragged her hands down to stroke his balls for the pleasure of watching his eyes go blacker still. And his rhythm got steady and faster and she could feel him everywhere in her body.
“Oh. My. God,” she moaned, as she felt the banking of pleasure that promised to be mind-blowing.
“I know, right?” he half rasped, half moaned, both self-congratulatory and awestruck.
“J. T....” It was a raw whisper, half laugh, half plea. Jesus.
He unleashed both of them.
Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as his hips drummed. And then his eyes went hot and dazed and she knew he was racing toward his own release as she rose up to meet hers. And when it came it was cataclysmic, a near killing pleasure, bowing her body upward, racking her with wave after wave of indescribable pleasure.
And she wrapped her arms around him and held him when he went still and as his body shook, her name a tattered rasp.
And then he gently laid his head on her chest, his back heaving, and she ran her hands over it, savoring, feeling both conquered and conqueror and unutterably, unaccountably moved.