rushed through me and I cried out. He licked, flicked, sucked, squeezed, learning exactly how to touch me to give me the maximum pleasure.
The way he was sitting on the bed, I couldn’t touch him, except to cup the back of his head, feel the springy thickness of his hair, explore the strong shape of his head.
He was deft, experienced. A patient lover, not one who rushed single-mindedly toward his own gratification. And I reaped the benefit. Perversely, I almost wished he’d lose control.
When my breasts were so sensitive they trembled at his touch, he moved down my body at a leisurely pace, his head pulling free of my grip. Now all I could do was lie there and let him bring my body to throbbing, erotic life, inch by inch.
“Pretty skin, Jade. Like rich, creamy coffee.” His finger circled my navel, making my belly quiver.
“And you smell like flowers and spice,” he said. That big finger traced the top band of the front of my thong, then followed the diagonal line of the edge down to my crotch, rough against my smooth skin. Gently, he spread my legs and stroked over the soaking crotch of my thong, pressing hard enough to stimulate the swollen flesh underneath.
I whimpered. “Quinn, I want more.”
6
Quinn peeled off my tiny panties and studied me. His eyes gleamed, and there was a flush across his chiseled cheekbones. “No prettier sight,” he said, his voice husky.
Stop looking and touch! my body screamed silently.
He must’ve got the message because he ran his fingers lightly over me, playing with the short curls of pubic hair, stroking my labia and the wet slit between, drifting over my clit. As if he was learning the lay of the land.
With each touch, my body quickened, skin becoming sensitized, arousal building inside me. Then he buried his face between my legs and retraced the same path with his tongue. He licked my folds with firm, sure strokes that had me pushing shamelessly against his tongue, craving more. And he gave it to me. A finger, then another, slipped inside me.
Gently, he pumped in and out, circled inside, explored all the sensitive spots and then—oh, God!—found my G-spot. “Yes, oh yes,” I panted as a calloused fingertip stroked that supersensitive flesh. I squeezed my eyes shut, saw a haze of rich, fiery scarlet behind my lids, felt my body imploding so my entire being focused on that one exquisite touch.
And then I exploded in a forceful surge of orgasm that made me cry out with pleasure.
I was still riding the tremors of aftershock when the rough pad of his thumb smoothed my juices over my clit and stroked. A second, less powerful climax rushed through me.
When I finally began to regain my breath, I gasped, “What do you do for an encore?”
“I’ll show you. Soon as I get a condom out of my wallet.”
“Bedside table. But, Quinn, I want to touch you too.” I’d barely had a chance to explore that fabulous body.
“Next time.” His voice rasped and his movements were urgent as he found a condom package, ripped it open, and sheathed that stunning erection. Then he was between my legs.
My knees came up, I lifted my hips, tilted my pelvis, offered myself to him. Yes, I wanted to touch him all over, take him in my mouth, yet I loved that he now felt some of the same desperate need I’d felt earlier.
The head of his cock probed swollen, sensitive flesh, then slipped inside. Just a little, then more, as my body softened and melted and took him in. “Mmm, you feel good,” I murmured. He stretched me, filled me, stroked the walls of my channel.
I’d always enjoyed sex, been responsive and fairly easy to satisfy. But this act, with Quinn, felt different—fuller, richer, more sensual, more erotic. My body was more aware, more receptive, more attuned to his. Perhaps because he’d turned me on from the moment I first saw him. Perhaps because he’d just given me two sensational orgasms.
The reason didn’t matter. His cock was inside me, his firm butt tensed under my hands, that fabulous torso glinted in the golden light, and his strong, handsome face wore an intense, impassioned expression. “Christ, Jade, you feel good.”
“You too.”
He stroked slowly, deliberately, occasionally speeding and changing the angle so the base of his penis rubbed my clit. So the coil of sexual tension inside me wound tight, my heart racing as I gasped for air. Then, each time I neared climax, he backed off, cooling things a little.
With some men, I’d have figured they didn’t know what they were doing and I’d have taken charge, moving in a way that would bring my orgasm. But with Quinn, I sensed he was deliberately prolonging the moment when we both climaxed. And I was confident he’d make it happen, and that it would be better for the anticipation and sensual buildup.
He leaned forward, his curly chest hairs tickling my breasts, and kissed me—a deep, long, thorough kiss—while his hips continued to pump. “Let me in deeper.”
Deeper? Could he go deeper?
He lifted his upper body and, still inside me, raised my lower body and stuffed a pillow under me so my hips and pelvis were lifted toward him. He rose so he was kneeling between my bent legs, hands gripping my butt. I grabbed his muscular thighs to hold myself in place, tight against him, as he began to thrust again, faster now.
“Oh my God, Quinn.” His cock not only rubbed my clit with each stroke, but inside me it rubbed my sweet spot. Each long, deep slide notched up the tension, and he increased the pace, his breath coming in harsh pants now. His control, his finesse, were slipping away, which heightened my excitement. I panted, whimpered, hovering on the fine edge of climax, and this time I wanted it so badly, needed it, I’d kill him if he backed off again.
But he didn’t. He plunged deep, filling me completely, tipping me over the edge until all I could do was spasm and shudder around him, crying out his name.
Seconds later, I heard his deep cry as he thrust hard and jerkily in his own orgasm.
Our bodies locked together, shuddering and quivering, for long minutes. Then he collapsed downward so he was lying atop me. He managed to pull the pillow out from under me and I sank deeper into the bed.
Resting on his elbows, he studied my face. “Christ, that was something. The first time I saw you, I thought you were hot, but damn, woman, you’re…”
“What?”
“Fire.”
“You fight fire.”
“Only the dangerous kind.” Slowly, his mouth curved into the smile that created a dimple. “Are you the dangerous kind?”
I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but I smiled back and shook my head. “No, you know exactly what I want from you. Two or three dates as my faux fiancé. That’s it.”
“No more of this?” A frown creased his face. “We’re so good together.”
“I don’t know.” I bit my lip, rational side taking over again. “Yes, this was wonderful, but, Quinn, sex is not my priority in life right now.” I shouldn’t
