Dark Wild Night (Wild Seasons #3)(47)
Author: Christina Lauren

“Yeah.” His fingers slide between my legs, mouth moving with mine in deep, searching kisses. When I reach for him, he’s covered in me, and I relish the wet slide of my hand up and down and the way he moans into my mouth, nearly whimpering. His free hand comes around mine, not guiding, just feeling the way my fingers wrap around him the same way mine did earlier, for a few long strokes before he begins to move with me, kisses growing more urgent as he leans in, nearly sliding back inside.

“Hurry,” I whisper, and he shushes me with his lips.

“Hang on, hang on,” he says, gently pulling my hand away. “Hang on. This . . . I want to slow down and feel all of this.” His kisses narrow into small, sweet tastes of my mouth. “I don’t want to come as fast as I will if we fuck like that again.”

I don’t know how sex with Oliver can ever be slow now that I know how it feels when he’s unhinged. Forever now, when he tries to be gentle I won’t have it. No, I’ll think. I know how you feel when you absolutely fuck me.

He reaches for the bedside table, fumbling with a box that I notice, with a small rush of satisfaction, was sealed shut. Returning with a foil packet, he drops it on the bed beside me. When I reach for it, he covers my hand with his before covering my lips with his smile.

“Wait.” He laughs into a kiss. “Wait.”

Lowering his body over mine, he bends and kisses me, slowing me down, heating me up, showing me what it feels like to savor.

The full mouth, his shoulders, and the strong, ropey lines down his arms.

The lean muscles of his back, his ass bunching in my palms as he slides wetly across me, fucking me on the outside.

The soft, dark trail of hair pressing against my navel.

We aren’t having sex yet, but we are; penetration is a technicality at this point, and I feel in his gaze that he’s telling me something with every kiss, every slide of skin over skin.

He watches me in a way that feels like he’s seeing more than my face looking up at his or my breasts shifting with his movements. He’s seeing me. The heat of it makes me wild, like skin singed, blood simmering.

“I feel like we have forever to ‘savor,’ ” I whine quietly. “I don’t—”

He reaches for the condom, putting it in my palm and kneeling between my legs. “I know.”

I tear it open, feeling it briefly to orient myself. I’m suddenly nervous and know my hands are a little fumbly, my fingers unpracticed at this. “It’s been a while since I did this.”

He smiles but says nothing, holding his breath as he watches me cover the head, anchor the condom with one hand, and roll it all the way down with the other. There’s a good couple of inches of him left uncovered and I feel the skin there, marveling until he leans forward, hands planted beside my head.

I can tell he wants to say something, but I also get the sense that it’s nearly too much to articulate without sounding trite or overly sentimental. It’s probably why I’m not saying much, either.

When he leans in, kissing me softly, he asks, “You want me like this?”

I assume he means on top of me again. “Yeah.”

His cock feels warmer than any other part of him, like fire barely contained. The feel of it in my hand makes everything inside turn liquid, makes my brain turn fuzzy. I close my eyes, bite my lip as I guide him in, shutting off some of my senses so I can process how he feels, the stretch of it when he shifts forward and into me. He’s shockingly hard where I am so soft and tender and it crosses wires in my body, makes me feel crazy, makes me wonder whether I could take him everywhere, where else he could possibly fit.

He exhales a low curse, pressing his mouth to the skin just below my ear. “Fuck,” he says again.

When I roll my hips under him, pulling him even deeper, he stops me with a rough hand on my hip. “Wait. I’m too—”

I still beneath him, except for the slow roaming of my palms up his back when he pushes himself up onto his hands. It’s the most surreal feeling, to feel joined to someone else like this. Not just rutting or moving together but actually connected.

With a slow exhale, he pulls back slightly and pushes in, groaning and giving in to the act as he starts to really move.

And I find I was wrong: slow and deep is just as perfect as Oliver’s frenzied fucking.

I’m amazed how he looks, moving over me. I’ve seen him from every angle a friend could see: standing side by side, seated across a table, in my car or his, on my floor while I’ve sketched him. I’ve even had my head in his lap looking up at him, and seen him roll out from beneath my car after he’s checked a suspicious leak. But I’ve never seen him like this. Naked, damp with sweat, with his hands propped beside my neck as he stares down the length of our bodies, watching himself. Arms flexed, lip snared between his teeth . . . enjoying just looking, feeling as he slides lazily forward and back.