Stripped (Stripped #1)(52)
Author: Jasinda Wilder

Dawson is tensed all over, shoulders turned into boulders, and his hands are loose on my br**sts. I glance at him, at the narrow-eyed look of concentration. I cannot fathom his thoughts.

“Am I…is this okay?” I ask. “I just…I want to see you, feel you.”

He smiles at me, and his expression is tender. “Of course, babe. Anything, everything. As slow as you want.”

But he’s struggling, it seems. With what, against what, I can’t know.

I stroke him with my one hand and then move so I’m kneeling next to him, out of his reach. He crosses his hands under his head and watches me as I touch him. Not just his erection but his chest and stomach and thighs as well.

I still want to taste him. I know this is something women do to men, because men at the club have asked me if I’ll do it, sometimes offering exorbitant amounts of money if I will. I never thought I would actually do it, though. Today I am. I hold him in one hand, then both, hand over hand, spanning most of his length. His tip and a sliver of the shaft rise above my top hand, and I bend over him, lower my mouth to him. I kiss the tip first. An actual kiss, but that doesn’t seem quite right. So I extend my tongue and taste the groove. He’s salty and soft. I put my lips around him, and I taste something smoky and salty on my tongue, and then I move my upper hand away and lower my mouth slightly.

Dawson groans and his back tightens, arches. I take in more of him, thinking this is what I’m supposed to do. And, in truth, I do like the way he feels, the way he tastes. My lips are stretched and my jaw is forced wider as I take his full width into my mouth, and now the tip of him is brushing the roof of my mouth and pushing at the back of my throat, so I pull my lips away, so slowly.

“Grey…Jesus, Grey.” He takes my face in his hands. “You have to stop that now. I’m not ready for that, and I really don’t think you are.”

“Ready for what?” But then, yes, I do know the mechanics of how sex works, of course, and I realize what will happen if I keep touching him, keep my mouth on him.

And no, I’m not ready for that. Someday I’ll experience that, but he’s right. Not now. “Yeah, you’re right,” I say, and lie down over him, settle my boobs on his chest and my mouth on his mouth, and his erection is hard between us, against my hip.

He must see the question in me, because he answers before I can form the words. “The things you do to me, Grey. God. It’s all I can do to hold back right now. You are so perfect. The way you touch me…” He buries his fingers in my hair, tight against my scalp, and interrupts me with a fiery kiss. “You make me feel…so good. It’s never felt like this before.”

And then I’m on my back suddenly, and he’s above me, and this is home as I’ve never experienced home before. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss, and we’re lost for a timeless moment. But it doesn’t last, because he’s pulling away. I tangle my fingers in his hair as he kisses my throat, the hollow of my neck. The rising slope of my right breast, around the areola, the puckered flesh, and then my nipple is in his mouth and there’s a sharp tug between my thighs, a burning pressure. His hand smooths over my belly, over my thighs. I willingly part my legs for his touch, sinfully and wantonly spread my thighs wide as his fingers delve deep. Then his touch is slicking into my cleft and the tug is a hot jerking inside me, ropes of nerves being twisted and pulled and braided by the rhythmic, searching sweep of his fingers inside me. My hips lift high off the bed as he brings me to the cusp of explosion and then slows his touch and lets me agonizingly back down, but the pressure doesn’t relent, only builds into a weight that I cannot bear. He doesn’t offer me relief and I don’t know the language to ask him for it, because all speech has been stolen away.

I have an identity in this moment, in this time: his touch. My climaxing eruption is who I am. His mouth on my br**sts and his fingers inside me are who I am.

And then, and then…his kisses move down my breastbone and down farther, over my belly, then a tongue over my slick-smooth mound. I’m shaking my head no, no, but of course I don’t mean actually no, I just mean to ask if he’s really going to do that…and he does. His lips touch my cleft, and I shudder. It’s a kiss of hesitant questing. I lift my hips in a silent encouragement. I’m lost to this experience, and I want everything he can give me.

He looks up at me, the question in his eyes. He doesn’t want me to feel rushed.

I have no shame left. “Please…please yes.” My words are inaudible and gasped, but he hears them.

He takes my ankles and drapes my knees over his shoulders, lifts me by the bottom and, with no warning whatsoever, spears his tongue into me. I clutch the bedding with a noise somewhere between a whimper and a cry and a shriek and a moan. Instead of the bedding, I decide to clutch him. My hands tangle in his hair and tug, curl into his dark locks and hold on as he uses his thumbs to spread my lips apart and he kisses me deep inside. It is a kiss, too. His lips move over my slick inner parts, and his tongue explores me, just like the way he kisses my mouth.

There has never in life been pleasure this intense before. Not ever. I alone know the meaning of true heavenly bliss.

I don’t try to hide or muffle the embarrassing sounds coming from me. In fact, as his lips suckle me, I begin to find my own noises arousing. I’m totally abandoned to this. I have no reason for control any longer, and I’m completely at his mercy. I let myself moan as loud as my voice will go, and for as much as I moan, Dawson redoubles the intensity of his oral attention. The more erotic my moans, the more wildly his tongue spears into me; the more I allow myself to cry out his name, the more swiftly he suckles and circles with his tongue, and now I’m all noise and thrashing hips.

I lock my legs around his head and keep him coiled against me, and now his fingers are slipping into me, too, two fingers into my cleft, delving in and sliding out, and that move from empty to full to empty makes me whine high in my throat, so he does it again, but more fully, and I throw my head back and arch my spine and I shatter beneath him, scream and gasp for breath and then scream again as wave after wave of orgasm hits me. I have no ability to stop the way I move against his mouth and buck my hips into his spearing tongue, and indeed his hands urge me onward and upward, not relenting when the orgasm hits, but pushing me beyond it into helpless breathless frozen ecstasy of fire released.

And then I’m coming back down and dizzy, and I moan in desperation as he moves away from me, off me, and I hear something crinkle. I crack my eyes open to watch him roll something thin and clear onto his erection. I know what’s next, a moment of fear, but then I have no time for it take hold because Dawson is back with me, kissing me.