Captured by Jasinda Wilder

  I want more of his touch. His touch I like. It's the scrutiny that unnerves me.

  I roll into him, and he takes my weight on top of him, still gripping my wrists so I can't escape, kissing me and deepening it, turning it heated and needy. I moan and struggle against his grip, wanting to touch him. He doesn't relent; instead, he tugs me fully onto his chest. I can feel his heartbeat under me and his hard-on at my core. His mouth is demanding and relentless and insistent on mine, and I'm powerless to do anything but give in, give him all he's demanding of me and beg for more with whimpers in the back of my throat. Oh, god, his hand. On my spine between my shoulder blades, nails scraping down my flesh. Pausing at my bra strap. Unhooking it in one deft move. Brushing the straps from my shoulders. Guiding my arms out, and I willingly cooperate, not knowing why or how, but only that he's eliciting desperate compliance from me. Lift up my torso enough for him to slide the undergarment out and set it aside. Now I'm lying completely on top of him clad in only my panties, and he's still kissing the ever-loving life out of me.

  He's tongue-fucking my mouth.

  God, I love it.

  Oh, shit. Ohshitohshit. He's rolling with me and I'm on my back, and he's still got my damn hands pinned above my head, except now his mouth has finally left mine and he's kissing down my throat to my chest, between my tits, cupping one to bring it to his mouth and sucking my nipple in, and I actually squeak with surprised need. With ecstasy. I soften. I melt, and then I moan and moan and moan as he crosses my sternum with tongue-laving kisses and finds my other boob, suckling that nipple with equally passionate attention.

  He moves down my body, kneeling between my thighs, holding my wrists over my chest now.

  "Derek?" I don't know what I'm asking, only that I'm pleading with him.

  I'm scared and I'm needy and I'm on fire and I'm nervous and I'm self-conscious. My core trembles. His eyes are on mine, unwavering and intense. He gathers a handful of the front of my underwear, a pair of deep crimson silk, high-cut bikinis, and drags them slowly and deliberately down, removing them the rest of the way.

  "Lift up for me, sexy."

  "Sexy?" It's part question, part protest.

  But yet, I'm lifting up -- my hips are off the saddle blanket to let him pull the silk the rest of the way off.

  "It's not a strong enough word." His eyes are still on mine, unwavering all this while.

  Now that I'm totally naked for him with the evening sun streaming through the trees and bathing me in golden light, his eyes rove downward. They search me, take me in totally and completely, head to toe, up and down and up and down. Perhaps more than anything he could ever say to me, the best motivation for me to realize my own beauty in his eyes is being able to watch his zipper tighten and tent out, watching his nostrils flare and his breathing deepen, his tongue wetting his lips in anticipation.

  Being told you're beautiful? Unless you never hear it, it can quickly become cheap. Any guy desperate for sex will tell you you're beautiful. Friends or family will say things like, "oh, well you're a beautiful woman, so...", and it just becomes part of you, people telling you you're beautiful. I know what I look like. I'm beautiful. Fair, attractive, proportioned features. Curves, nice eyes, thick hair. Whatever. That doesn't mean I don't have my insecurities. I dare any woman who has carried a child to tell me she's never, ever felt insecure or self-conscious about her stretch marks. Some use oils and lotions and yoga to get rid of them, some don't. I haven't. Haven't had the time. Some learn to own them, to rock bikinis and strut their stuff on the beach. Good for them. That's just not me.

  And really, it's not like I'm paranoid about it. It's less about the stretch marks and more about the fact that I've not been looked at as a sexual creature in so long that it's unfamiliar and scary. It's about the fact that I only had two partners before Tom, both short-term, awkward, teenage romances. Then I was with Tom, and only Tom, for the rest of my life. And he was gone for most of our marriage. Meaning, there have been many long periods in my life without sex. Tom was my best friend and my husband, so it was easy with him. He knew me, he got me. And even still, I'd be nervous the first time after he was back on leave.

  So now, with Derek staring down at me, I'm rife with insecurity and nerves.

  Yet Derek's expression...it reassures me. He's nervous, too. And looking at me, he's clearly attracted to me. His gaze rakes over me, takes in my breasts, my thighs, my stomach, my core, my eyes, my face. My lips. And with the way he looks at me, the appreciation so apparent in his eyes, I feel beautiful. I feel wanted.

  I feel sexy.

  He lets go of my wrists. "Leave 'em there, okay?"

  I nod. I don't question. He smiles at me. Licks his lips again and touches his lips to the side of my boob, the underside, my rib. My stomach. And then, ever so gently, ever so deliberately, he kisses each mark on my stomach. Each blemish, each gap in the tautness of my belly, he kisses. He draws his tongue up, pressing his lips over each...and every...one.

  I'm crying by the time he's done. He didn't have to say a thing, but his meaning was clear.

  I let my tears fall, tears that are soft and gentle, appreciative and thankful. He looks up at me, his chin on my hipbone. "Okay?"

  I can only nod. My heart rate ratchets up between one second and the next, though, because his gaze slides away from mine, over my body once more, down between my thighs. Hooo...shit. No insecurities here. I did Kegels and all those other exercises to keep things tight down there, so I feel fine about myself in that area. What I'm feeling right now is just raw nerves. He's moving, his hands sliding over my hipbones, trailing down through the trimmed "V" of hair--I wonder if I should have shaved it for him?--his finger sliding over the seam of my opening. I tremble. Exhale. Keep my eyes on him, hands above my head as requested.

  A finger inside me. His mouth on my stomach, then my left thigh, then the softness of my inner leg, near the knee. All of that is within the bounds of what I was anticipating. I close my eyes, thread my fingers together, and sigh at the soft, wet feel of his mouth on the crease of my thigh where hip meets leg.

  I don't expect his tongue sliding up my opening. I gasp out loud, eyes jerking open, knees closing around his shoulders. "Derek! What are you--?"

  "Tasting you."

  "But I'm--" I don't even really know what my protest was going to be.

  "Sweet as sugar and twice as nice." He caresses my inner, upper thighs, gently parting my legs. "Now relax and enjoy it."

  This Derek, the slightly bossy one? I really like him. I offer up a token resistance, nervous about my taste, my smell. Whether I'm groomed enough for him down there. Whether he expects me to return the favor, because I'm not sure I'm ready for that just yet, either. My token resistance, a stiffening of my legs, has him taking my ankle in his hand, placing it where he wants it. Namely, over his shoulder. Then the other. My knees are wide apart, spreading my vag open for him to see all of me, every fold and crease and wrinkle. My ass is almost off the ground, my knees hooked over his shoulders.

  "I feel ridiculous like this," I mutter.

  Derek doesn't answer. Not right away, at least. He glides in, palms sliding up my thighs, back down. Around my hips to cup my tautened ass, and then I'm subsumed by sensations. His tongue on my clitoris. A long, thick finger sliding into my opening, diving in, exploring, circling, curling. His tongue, sweeping and swiping and stabbing and spearing and tasting. I moan -- I can't help it. It's a breathy, erotic sound in the quiet forest, a long, drawn-out "ohhhhhh." And my hips drive up, demanding more of him. Because holy god Jesus, does this feel amazing. So good. So, so, so good. His tongue is strong and relentless, finding a slow circling rhythm around my clit, which is throbbing and thick with sensitivity, each touch of his mouth and lips and tongue shooting rockets of ecstasy through me. I'm tingling from my toes to my scalp, my fingers grasping my own wrists, then stealing down in disobedience to feather through his hair and hold him in place, clutching him against me, greedy for more.

 
He adds a finger inside my pussy, curling up against that perfect spot, rubbing back and forth in a gentle thrust. "Now how do you feel? Is it ridiculous still?"

  "Derek...god, please...."

  "Please what?"

  "More, Derek. More. Don't stop."

  "Keep talking, gorgeous. Tell me exactly what you want." He licks me, a fat wet swipe of his tongue up my opening, ending with his stiffened tongue dragging against my clit.

  "Ooohhh-ohhhhh-fuckinggodyes...more. Do that again. Your mouth, right there. Please." I might not be making any sense, but clearly Derek likes what he hears.

  He growls in his throat and dives back in, repeating the move with his tongue. Again and again. And each time, the pulsations of explosive heat roll low through my core up to my belly, tightening my muscles and making my skin scream, and each time, they get stronger and hotter. His two fingers inside me drive relentlessly into me, a slow, rhythmic, thorough fucking of my insides, his fingertips sliding and pressing against that ridged area of so-tender, so-sensitive skin, and with each fuck of his fingers I go slightly mad, my hips rising and falling, driven to unbridled ecstasy by his tongue and his fingers.

  I'm moaning nonstop now. Who am I? This is a new me. I've never been vocal. Not like this. Not loud enough to shock my own ears. Not these high-pitched whimpers that turn into mini-screams and quiet shrieks.

  And, just when I'm on the verge, hovering on the trembling edge of detonation, he changes it all up. He shifts my body upward, his shoulders sliding between my thighs to throw them wide open, and his mouth travels up my belly, slick juices on his chin smearing against my diaphragm. I'm insane with need now, growling at him, squeezing him with my legs, thrashing beneath him, shoving at his head. But those motions immediately still as his mouth finds my nipple and sucks on it, teeth worrying at it, mouth flattening it, fingers of one hand pinching and twisting my other nipple, cupping my tit and kneading it, thrumming the nipple, strumming and scraping with his fingernail.

  And his other hand...please fuck yes...yes, it goes between my legs. Middle, index and ring finger slide and slip against my saliva-slick folds, my own essence throbbing out of me, his fingers dipping into my channel and smearing the pungent juices of my desire and need over my trembling folds. He presses and circles. I moan. He releases the pressure, leaving a light touch, the pads of his fingertips barely touching my clit. They circle around the sensitive nub without actually touching it. And I scream.

  Volcanic heat floods through me; my thighs shake and my gut tenses and my eyes clench shut and my toes curl. I rake my fingers down his back, and my hips are rising and falling, lifting and sinking, seeking his fingers in rhythm with his touch, which does not relent, doesn't speed up or slow down. He just keeps the pressure, the pace, and it drives me wild as I come with a frantic detonation.

  And then he's down there again, between my thighs with his lips suckling my clit and his fingers driving into me, and holy shit I'm coming again, both of my hands on his head pulling him against me, driving into his mouth with my hips.

  I'm fucking his face.

  And he's going wild over it. He's moving his tongue against my clit in a feverish pace, driving my orgasm to heights I hadn't thought possible, his fingers sliding into me slow and deep.

  When the riot of ecstatic madness fades a bit and my shrieks have quieted and my hips have stilled, he takes to licking me slowly once more, his tongue sliding up the drenched opening of my pussy to flick gently against my clit. This is, in its own way, just as crazy-making as the fast and furious explosion. It sends shuddering aftershocks through me, potent waves of clenching heat that have me making a sound in low in the back of my throat that I can only describe as primal.

  He's made me come twice, come so hard I'm limp and gasping and close to tears of stunned, frenzied, pleasure. And he hasn't even taken his shirt off.

  Suddenly, I feel desperate for him. Hungry for him.

  Fuck dignity or decorum. Fuck being ladylike. I want Derek, and he's here with me, doing incredible things to me. I want him, and I'm going to have him, consequences be damned.

  I wonder if he knows what he's done to me?

  CHAPTER 14

  DEREK

  I'm so hard in my jeans it hurts. It physically hurts. Reagan, goddamn...the woman is the most erotic being I've ever seen in my life. So responsive, so alluringly beautiful and unaware of it in a maddening kind of way. Maddening because she's drop-dead gorgeous, hard-working, patient, kind, and generous. She's not insecure, not self-conscious except about that one particular thing on her stomach. Those aren't unattractive. They're part of her. And she is, from head to toe, the sexiest girl ever, so fucking hot she's a fantasy. She has a potty-mouth at times, which I find attractive. I like a woman to talk dirty, to say nasty things to me. And when I make her scream, it gets me so hard I could come in my jeans like some little thirteen-year-old kid seeing tits for the first time.

  Speaking of tits, hers taste so good, feel so soft in my hands, against my lips. She's a C-cup, unless I miss my guess, not that it matters, because, like all of her, they're perfect. Big enough to hold, grip, and knead and overflow my hands. Softer than silk or satin. Firm. Thick, sensitive nipples surrounded by lush dark pink areolae.

  She's gasping beneath me, sucking in desperate breaths as she comes down from two intense and vocal orgasms, and I'm just staring at her, soaking in her beauty, memorizing every single inch. Her thighs, pale and strong. Angular hipbones, padded with curves. That dip, there at her hips. Her ass, round and high and firm.

  And...Jesus, her pussy. That pussy. So tight and wet and sensitive. Each touch of my tongue drove her wild. Going down on her wasn't just to get her off, to make her lose control -- it was an homage. It was worship of her body, her slick, deep sex, her pink delicate labia and her small, hard, sensitive clit.

  I'm kissing her mouth and she's breathing into me, pulling away and holding my head and looking at me with these pale sky-blue eyes hot with passion, emblazoned and emboldened with need and searching me, penetrating into my soul, wet with emotion and melting with affection. She kisses me, leaning up, and then she falls back. Her hands are on my ears, sliding down to my cheeks, holding my jaw. One hand on my cheek, thumb at my lips, the other feathering through my hair and caressing the nape of my neck with her fingertips in a way that has me wanting to melt into her, wanting to purr like a cat and beg her to tell me how to please her. It's a gentle, affectionate gesture that is almost too heady, too soul-shakingly tender for me to handle.

  She lifts up on her shoulder blades, neck arching, to kiss me, I thought, but no. Not a kiss. Her tongue touches my chin, my upper lip. She's licking her essence off my mouth, and holy fuck is that hot. So hot.

  She's pawing at my shirt. "Too--too many damned clothes."

  Ripping at it impatiently, she pulls it up over my skull, but it's stuck with my face in the opening. I am Cornholio! The joke flits through my head, but I don't say it. I shrug out of the shirt, toss it aside.

  "Better?" I ask.

  She shakes her head. "No. Mmmm-mmm. Not better. Not enough." She reaches between us, fumbles at my zipper. "Pants. No more pants."

  I like this Reagan, this demanding, voracious, hot-eyed vixen. I feel like I broke down some wall inside her, broke through her reserves or her fear or her nerves or whatever, knocked down those walls to bring out a sex-starved demon.

  I go for the button-snap of my jeans, but I'm not fast enough for her. She shoves at me, knocks me to my back. Kneels beside me and jerks my jeans down. I lift my butt up, and she's got them off. I'm commando, and she's gasping, panting, sighing as I lie naked before her. I like that moan, that sound of appreciation, the way her eyes light up and her nostrils flare and her lips curve up in a smile at the sight of my rigid cock. I lie still, knowing if I move a single muscle I'll have her on her hands and knees in front of me, driving into her.

  I'll have her like that sometime soon. Oh, yes. I'll have her in the hay, a blanket beneath us, her tits s
waying and her sweet ass spread wide open for me, thick round flesh and muscle cushioning me, taking me balls-deep in her tight pussy. I'll bend her over her bed and up against the wall of the barn out back where she first fondled me into coming all over both of us. I'll have her everywhere and anywhere.

  But this? Here and now? This is about her. Not me. It's about showing her that I can't fucking breathe for wanting her, that her desires, her need, her desperation are all I care about, that giving her exactly what she wants, what she needs, is my only focus. That she's worth the whole goddamn world, even if all I can offer her is my fucked-up self.

  So I lie still, moments from spooging on myself because she's so fucking hot, her lips swollen from kissing me, glistening and moist and parted, her tits hanging heavy and lush and luscious, her thighs opened just enough to give me a teasing glimpse of her pussy, of the curls of pubic hair that I'm glad she didn't shave totally. I lie still and wait for her to take what she wants.

  She reaches out hesitantly, her eyes on my dick, tongue-tip tracing her lower lip.

  "Anything you want," I say. "Take. Demand. I'm here, and I'm yours. I want you to be happy."

  She blinks and looks me in the eye. "I'm torn. I want you inside me. I want to come while you're inside me." My cock twitches because I want that so bad I can feel it. But I stay still and listen. "But I want to make you feel as good as I felt."

  She wraps her fist around my cock, runs her thumb over my tip. I tense and close my eyes, and tighten up all my muscles.

  I used to be able to hold back until I wanted to let go. I used to have almost total control. Not anymore, unfortunately. That kind of muscle control is the use-it-or-lose-it kind. I'm trying to act confident and in control for her, because she wants to forget -- she wants to just abandon herself to feeling for a while, and I know I can give that to her. But this is totally new for me, too. On so many levels. It's been a long time since I've had this. It was a good year and a half in Afghanistan, which is a hell of a dry spell. There was leave, sure. Liberty, and whatever. Some fine-ass chicks on deployment, too. But our company CO frowned on that kind of fraternization because it just causes trouble in most cases. Which I totally got, having seen buddies hook up with girls from their company or others, and when spats happened, as they inevitably will, it made shit messy. So I avoided that, a rare display of restraint in that department for me, really. And as for the local talent? No. Leave it there. Just no. Too dangerous, if it existed at all. So that long dry spell, plus three years as a POW, plus the three months in rehab? I'm so sex-starved as to be dangerous to humanity.