Stripped by Jasinda Wilder
Page 42
And then he does, and the moan that erupts from me is loud, breathy, and erotic. I feel myself blush at the moan, but I have no time or thought-space for anything else as he sucks my nipple hard, flattening it. I moan again, gasping, writhing underneath him. I’ve never, ever felt anything like this. It’s overwhelming, earth-shattering. I clutch the back of his head as he releases my nipple with a pop and then flicks it with his tongue, grazes it with his teeth. Heat and pressure build inside me, centered low in my belly, in my core. It’s a desperate pressure, a volcanic need, and I don’t know what to do.
While his mouth is busy with my right nipple, his left hand is doing similar things to my left breast, and I’m gasping and breathless, making all sorts of embarrassing noises. I know, deep inside me, that I shouldn’t be doing this. My pastor’s daughter guilt is kicking in, telling me I’m sinning with this man. I do my best to ignore that little voice, that leftover seed of shame.
He moves his mouth to my left nipple, and his right hand carves over my ribs, over my belly, to my hip, and his fingers slip under the waistband of my yoga pants, and then stops, eyes on mine. I take over for him, pushing my pants down, rolling them away.
I’m helpless. I have no will left, no capacity to resist his touch, no ability to stop this. I know I should, but I can’t. I’m so weak. So weak. He’s all over me, kissing my mouth, kissing my throat, tweaking my ni**les in his fingers, keeping me breathless and restless and writhing, and the pressure is mounting inside me, in my core. I’m damp down there, slick. I press my thighs together in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure, but it does nothing.
My tight black yoga pants are rolled down far enough that the top of my underwear is showing, a strip of red cotton. My eyes are closing and opening, taking in Dawson’s face, his eyes as he glances at me, his mouth as he sucks at my nipple and stretches it, making me moan and squirm and gasp as the heat and pressure build to an unbearable level. And then his fingers graze the elastic line of my underwear and pause. I’m completely at his mercy. I know that I shouldn’t let this happen, that I’m crossing some line I shouldn’t cross, but I won’t stop it. He’s touching me; he owns me. He knows exactly what I need, what I want, even if I don’t.
And now, oh, god. His fingers, just his middle and ring fingers are slipping under the elastic to touch the waxed-smooth skin, and I’m trembling all over. I want this. I want him to touch me.
I’ve never even touched myself there. Never. It was an unspoken sin, shameful and disgusting. And then, as an adult, I had no reason or time. I’ve never known desire, never known the need to touch myself like he’s touching me.
His eyes are greenish now, a color I’ve never seen in him before. He’s watching me as he moves his touch—oh, so gradually, so carefully—downward. My thighs are pressed tight together, but loosen to welcome his touch, as if my body wants this even though my mind, heart and soul are at war. My body responds. His long middle finger is nearing the top of my opening, and then the tip of his finger is slipping inside me. I whimper, a noise of need and fear.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs. His eyes are on me, and I know he’s reading my emotions.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I just meet his eyes, and then my back lifts and my hips rise, and again my body makes my decision for me. His middle finger sinks deeper inside me, and now a word finally escapes my lips.
His name. “Dawson…” It’s a whispered plea, but I don’t know if I’m asking for more or begging him to stop.
I’m trembling all over. My knees shake, my hands shake. My lips shiver, and my eyes can’t focus. I feel his finger between my lips, a foreign feeling, a fullness, and then he’s delving deeper. His hand curls, and his finger moves deeper yet.
And then his finger touches me in a certain way, and lightning hits. A moan rips from my throat as raw pleasure rifles through me. He’s watching me, and I watch him watch me. He’s lying partially on his side, and my shirt is rucked up over my br**sts, which are heavy and falling to either side of my body, and my hip bones are visible as I arch off the bed under his touch. I can’t help the whimpering moan as he touches me just right again, and the heat and pressure deep within me build and build and build into something unsustainable, something violent and on the knife edge of detonation. Something has to break.
“Oh, god, Dawson!” I hear the words leave my lips, and I’ve never, ever sounded so needy, so erotically breathy and womanly.
“Grey…god, Grey. You’re so gorgeous. You’re perfect. ” His voice is a murmur in my ear.
And then his touch becomes motion, a gentle circling around that spot, and I’m lifting my hips to the rhythm of his touch, and I’m blushing hot at the way my body is responding, but I can’t help it. Nothing has ever felt this way, and I can’t stop it and I don’t want to, even if it’s wrong.
His mouth descends to suck my left nipple into his mouth and the ratcheting pleasure bursts open, becomes a scattering pulsating series of explosions in my chest and my core, and my heart is a wild tribal drum in my chest, and my breathing is all moans and gasps, and his whispered name.
His fingers are moving swiftly now, and the detonations inside me are building, and I don’t know what to do. I’m going to come apart, I’m going to lose myself to this, I’m going to be lost in the hurricane of sensation, but he doesn’t relent. He bites my nipple and I hear myself make a noise that’s almost a scream, and then his fingers inside me find that perfect spot and his mouth sucks my other nipple between his lips and worry at it and now I’m gone…
Everything inside me comes apart. I’m screaming, actually shrieking as white-hot lances of raw ecstasy spear through me. I’m shattered, convulsing, completely unable to stop the way my hips lift clear off the bed, seeking his touch, needing more, and he gives me more, so much more. He kisses me on my mouth as I shatter under his touch, and his tongue is inside my mouth and his lips possess mine. I’m grabbing at him, clawing at him as my muscles clench and release. My head spins and my breathing goes erratic. I hear my own long moans of pure sensuality and erotic desperation.
His hand withdraws and his mouth presses against my cheek, and he holds me against him as I tremble uncontrollably.
When I’m capable of speech, I lift my head to meet his eyes. “What…what did you do to me?”
And then he does, and the moan that erupts from me is loud, breathy, and erotic. I feel myself blush at the moan, but I have no time or thought-space for anything else as he sucks my nipple hard, flattening it. I moan again, gasping, writhing underneath him. I’ve never, ever felt anything like this. It’s overwhelming, earth-shattering. I clutch the back of his head as he releases my nipple with a pop and then flicks it with his tongue, grazes it with his teeth. Heat and pressure build inside me, centered low in my belly, in my core. It’s a desperate pressure, a volcanic need, and I don’t know what to do.
While his mouth is busy with my right nipple, his left hand is doing similar things to my left breast, and I’m gasping and breathless, making all sorts of embarrassing noises. I know, deep inside me, that I shouldn’t be doing this. My pastor’s daughter guilt is kicking in, telling me I’m sinning with this man. I do my best to ignore that little voice, that leftover seed of shame.
He moves his mouth to my left nipple, and his right hand carves over my ribs, over my belly, to my hip, and his fingers slip under the waistband of my yoga pants, and then stops, eyes on mine. I take over for him, pushing my pants down, rolling them away.
I’m helpless. I have no will left, no capacity to resist his touch, no ability to stop this. I know I should, but I can’t. I’m so weak. So weak. He’s all over me, kissing my mouth, kissing my throat, tweaking my ni**les in his fingers, keeping me breathless and restless and writhing, and the pressure is mounting inside me, in my core. I’m damp down there, slick. I press my thighs together in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure, but it does nothing.
My tight black yoga pants are rolled down far enough that the top of my underwear is showing, a strip of red cotton. My eyes are closing and opening, taking in Dawson’s face, his eyes as he glances at me, his mouth as he sucks at my nipple and stretches it, making me moan and squirm and gasp as the heat and pressure build to an unbearable level. And then his fingers graze the elastic line of my underwear and pause. I’m completely at his mercy. I know that I shouldn’t let this happen, that I’m crossing some line I shouldn’t cross, but I won’t stop it. He’s touching me; he owns me. He knows exactly what I need, what I want, even if I don’t.
And now, oh, god. His fingers, just his middle and ring fingers are slipping under the elastic to touch the waxed-smooth skin, and I’m trembling all over. I want this. I want him to touch me.
I’ve never even touched myself there. Never. It was an unspoken sin, shameful and disgusting. And then, as an adult, I had no reason or time. I’ve never known desire, never known the need to touch myself like he’s touching me.
His eyes are greenish now, a color I’ve never seen in him before. He’s watching me as he moves his touch—oh, so gradually, so carefully—downward. My thighs are pressed tight together, but loosen to welcome his touch, as if my body wants this even though my mind, heart and soul are at war. My body responds. His long middle finger is nearing the top of my opening, and then the tip of his finger is slipping inside me. I whimper, a noise of need and fear.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs. His eyes are on me, and I know he’s reading my emotions.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I just meet his eyes, and then my back lifts and my hips rise, and again my body makes my decision for me. His middle finger sinks deeper inside me, and now a word finally escapes my lips.
His name. “Dawson…” It’s a whispered plea, but I don’t know if I’m asking for more or begging him to stop.
I’m trembling all over. My knees shake, my hands shake. My lips shiver, and my eyes can’t focus. I feel his finger between my lips, a foreign feeling, a fullness, and then he’s delving deeper. His hand curls, and his finger moves deeper yet.
And then his finger touches me in a certain way, and lightning hits. A moan rips from my throat as raw pleasure rifles through me. He’s watching me, and I watch him watch me. He’s lying partially on his side, and my shirt is rucked up over my br**sts, which are heavy and falling to either side of my body, and my hip bones are visible as I arch off the bed under his touch. I can’t help the whimpering moan as he touches me just right again, and the heat and pressure deep within me build and build and build into something unsustainable, something violent and on the knife edge of detonation. Something has to break.
“Oh, god, Dawson!” I hear the words leave my lips, and I’ve never, ever sounded so needy, so erotically breathy and womanly.
“Grey…god, Grey. You’re so gorgeous. You’re perfect. ” His voice is a murmur in my ear.
And then his touch becomes motion, a gentle circling around that spot, and I’m lifting my hips to the rhythm of his touch, and I’m blushing hot at the way my body is responding, but I can’t help it. Nothing has ever felt this way, and I can’t stop it and I don’t want to, even if it’s wrong.
His mouth descends to suck my left nipple into his mouth and the ratcheting pleasure bursts open, becomes a scattering pulsating series of explosions in my chest and my core, and my heart is a wild tribal drum in my chest, and my breathing is all moans and gasps, and his whispered name.
His fingers are moving swiftly now, and the detonations inside me are building, and I don’t know what to do. I’m going to come apart, I’m going to lose myself to this, I’m going to be lost in the hurricane of sensation, but he doesn’t relent. He bites my nipple and I hear myself make a noise that’s almost a scream, and then his fingers inside me find that perfect spot and his mouth sucks my other nipple between his lips and worry at it and now I’m gone…
Everything inside me comes apart. I’m screaming, actually shrieking as white-hot lances of raw ecstasy spear through me. I’m shattered, convulsing, completely unable to stop the way my hips lift clear off the bed, seeking his touch, needing more, and he gives me more, so much more. He kisses me on my mouth as I shatter under his touch, and his tongue is inside my mouth and his lips possess mine. I’m grabbing at him, clawing at him as my muscles clench and release. My head spins and my breathing goes erratic. I hear my own long moans of pure sensuality and erotic desperation.
His hand withdraws and his mouth presses against my cheek, and he holds me against him as I tremble uncontrollably.
When I’m capable of speech, I lift my head to meet his eyes. “What…what did you do to me?”