Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)(50)
Author: Jen Frederick

The shoe boxes are stacked in a corner, and the felt bags rest like little dumplings in a row. My piles of T-shirts, tennis shoes, and bike shorts look incongruous and cheap next to the newly bought finery. Just seeing the juxtaposition of my clothes next to the ones that Ian has presumably bought for me highlights the differences in our worlds. We don’t look like we belong together.

I rifle through the clothes and realize that many of the items he’s purchased look very comfortable despite their expensive fabrics. There are several pants and longer skirts. The tops are loose-fitting and made out of a knit fabric or stretchy lace. Even the dresses don’t look like something that would be tight and super revealing but rather fabrics that will skim my not-very-prominent curves. Maybe we can find common ground after all.

He returns around lunchtime with a satchel which he unpacks in the closet where my new and old clothes hang. I watch him silently and remain quiet even after he raises a challenging eyebrow. I’m still trying to figure us both out. Having him around more isn’t really a problem.

The next day he has Steve drive us to the Bronx Zoo the day before Mom’s chemo session. Chemo seems easier this time around. Hallie arrives to read another chapter and I take off to do the day route instead of the late afternoon and evening. Despite being worn out, the following day Mom is upright and sitting in a chair out on the small balcony. The city noise is loud but the cool breeze from Central Park is almost refreshing.

Mom loves Ian and he is incredibly tender and caring with her. My heart swells larger than my body can contain when I see them together but it’s a sweet pain. The days go by swiftly as I look forward to going home and seeing Ian and a cheery mom. The nights are long and passionate. I’ve never been happier.

After a week of missing Ian in the morning because he gets up before the crack of dawn to go to work, I haul myself out of bed early, wearing my beater tank and a pair of panties that he bought. He’s lathering his face with a brush, raising suds as he works his shaving soap in a circular motion. Shirtless, but wearing pants, he leans against the counter toward the mirror, pulling down on his skin and making funny O’s with his mouth as he spreads the soap around.

His actions are mesmerizing, and I stumble into the bathroom for a closer look. Ian taps his brush against the sink and turns, lifting me onto the counter in a smooth movement. “Like what you see?”

“It looks like you have whipped cream on your face.” I draw a finger down a soap-lathered cheek, watching the flesh appear underneath.

“Don’t lick your finger. It doesn’t taste like whipped cream.” He flashes me a quick grin, his teeth gleaming whitely from between lips that look fuller and pinker in contrast to the shaving cream.

“May I?” I ask, picking up the brush. He clenches his jaw once. Then nods and moves between my legs. The wooden soap dish is half-full which seems to indicate that he’s been using it for a while. I sniff the brush and it smells vaguely of lemons. Slowly I swirl the brush in the soap. “Are the bristles soft?” I ask as I smooth the soap on, trying to mimic his earlier circular motion.

His hands are on either side of my hips, and he’s leaning so close to me that I can see the palpable beat of the artery in his neck. The air is thick around us and my mouth is inexplicably dry. I lick my lips and open my mouth to ease the ache in my chest, but the tension is choking me. Still, I keep rubbing the bristles along his taut skin.

The little bristles catch on his hair-roughened cheek and jaw. I swirl the brush in small circles, watching the soap lather up with each pass. My feelings for Ian are so intense and consuming. I want to do everything with him—even this small, intimate act. I wonder how many others have seen him like this. How many have ran the brush across his jaw and traced the dip in his cheek?

“You’re it,” he says softly.

My eyes flick to his and all I can see is me. Me and sincerity. And because I’m tired of being alone, tired of battling by myself, tired of fighting, I give in. My hand creeps behind his neck and grips the nape, drawing him closer to me. From this distance I can smell the lemon and menthol. I can see the soft skin under his eyes, the hard line of his nose. His lids are at half-mast and his hands move restlessly along my outer thighs.

“Tiny,” he groans and then pulls me hard against his erection. His eyes are blazing. “You’re killing me.”

Without regard for the soap, his mouth finds mine. The suds smear across my cheeks and some even creeps between our lips, but I don’t care. It tastes like Ian.

His lips break apart from mine and trace a path from my jaw down to my neck. He breathes my name repeatedly like it’s a prayer. Tiny, Tiny, Tiny. I hook my legs around him, reveling in the feel of his hot, hard column of flesh rubbing up against my tender and wet parts.

My tank is pushed up and over my head, and then one breast is palmed and the other is taken into his mouth. Thank goodness for the wall that catches me as I fall backward. He sucks hard on my nipple, so hard I feel my pu**y clenching with each long pull. I rub myself against him, wishing he wasn’t wearing his pants. Wishing that we were both naked.

“I need inside your pu**y so badly,” he mouths against my breast.

“Yes.”

With a growl, Ian attacks my other breast. The soap on his face is nearly all rubbed off into my skin, but apparently he doesn’t mind the taste either.

My hands fumble at his waistband, but I manage to unbutton and then unzip his trousers. Delving inside his briefs, I release a moan of delight at the feel of his heavy c**k in my hands. God, had it only been a few hours since I last touched him? It seems like months. As Ian lavishes attention on my br**sts, I encircle his c**k with both my hands. The wetness on the tip exhibits his desire. I want more of that. I want all of him.

His mouth is back on my neck, sucking hard. The suction sends a shudder throughout my body. Ian lifts me against him and walks into the bedroom, following me down. With swift kicks, he rids himself of his pants. I can’t stop touching him.

“Need to taste you,” he grunts and pushes down my body, ripping my panties down my legs. Without any preliminaries, his mouth is on me and his tongue is inside me. Bells sound in my head followed by the rasp of a heavy guitar. Wait, a guitar? I manage to roll my head toward my nightstand where my phone is ringing.

“Don’t answer it,” Ian orders. He’s on his knees now, braced over me. His mouth is slick from my wetness, and he’s replaced his tongue with two of his fingers. I turn away from the phone. Malcolm can wait. Reaching down between us, I pull out Ian’s cock. Saliva pools in my mouth. I want his thick length in my mouth, down my throat. I want his balls in my hands. Tugging on him, I sidle downward and he reluctantly lets me. I can tell he’s torn between wanting to be in my mouth and wanting to finger me, but it’s my turn.