Stripped (Stripped #1)(53)
Author: Jasinda Wilder

I taste myself on his mouth and tongue, vaguely salty tangy and decidedly feminine musk, the smell of me as a taste. His kiss is desperate, and I know he’s preparing himself for me to freak out. It’s there inside me, the panic, but I deny it. I kiss him and revel in the weight of his body against me, and the strength of his arms around me, and I know I want this. I kiss him with everything I have, and I curl one hand around the back of his neck.

“Grey, you don’t…we don’t have to, if you’re not ready.”

“I’ll never be ready. But I’ve never wanted anything more.” But I owe him all the truth inside me. “But I’m going to freak out at some point. I know I am. I’m lost in you, lost in this, in us, but I’m going to flip out. You should know that. But you also have to know that I do want this. So much. Please, do this with me.”

His belly is hard and warm against my stomach, and I feel the tip of him at the inside of my thigh, huge and hard. His arms are strong and now-familiar bars at either side of my face. His eyes search me.

I put my lips to his, and I let him taste the words as I say them: “I love you, Dawson.” I feel him swell, see his eyes fill with emotion, feel his chest expand, and even his erection grows harder and thicker against me.

“Grey…I love you. God, I love you.”

I have to ask him. I have to say the words. “Make love to me, Dawson. Please, make love to me.”

“With all my heart, yes.” But he doesn’t push into me.

Instead, he reaches down between us and finds my sweet spot with his fingers, finds my breast with his mouth and he patiently, slowly brings me to writhing, breathless arousal. When I reach the cusp of orgasm, he kisses me, and I open my eyes to stare into his every-colored eyes. He doesn’t slow his fingers on my pleasure-center; he nudges at my vagina with the tip of his erection. It’s just a slight pressure at first, just the very smallest part of him inside me, and I let my legs fall apart because otherwise I’ll clamp them shut. I am panicking a little. My heart is pounding with as much fear as pleasure, and he knows it, because he lets me fall away from the edge of orgasm, and he slides in a little farther, letting me feel the stretch of him filling me, and I gasp and tears start at the corners of my eyes, because he’s so huge inside me, filling me past my ability to take it.

But I do take it and he stills, and I begin to need the fullness, begin to understand how much I’m going love this, but there’s pain in the way, so I don’t yet love it, but I will. And then he speeds his fingers inside me and nips sharply at my breast with his teeth and brings me to the furious edge of orgasm, and this time he keeps going, sliding a little deeper with each circle of his fingers, and then I’m bursting apart and gasping and moaning, and Dawson’s eyes lock onto me, silently pleading with me to watch his eyes, hold the gaze, so I do, and he thrusts once, hard, and there’s an instant of blinding pain, but it’s buried under a tsunami of starbursts, pleasure laced with pain. He stays buried deep, fingers and mouth giving me pleasure as the throbbing pain subsides. And then I’m completely filled by him. He’s in me. Hips to hips, mouth to mouth. Our fingers entangle, rest by my face. Our tongues taste tongue and lips and teeth, and he’s huge inside me, stretching me to pinching pain that bleeds into pleasure.

And then…he moves. He slowly slides out of me, and I’m empty and lost without that fullness. I bury my face into the column of his neck, feeling his pulse on my eyelashes. He glides back into me in infinitesimally slow motion, and I clutch and scrabble at his backside, because the bliss that suffuses me is heaven, beyond heaven, it’s pure wonder, everything that’s good in the universe exploding inside me. It’s the presence of love welling up inside me.

I’m crying, but I’m smiling, and he sees that, and he kisses the tears, kisses my cheekbones and my eyelids and my chin and my mouth and my neck, and all the while he’s drawing out, and pushing in. But slowly. So slowly. So gently. Lovingly. A sinuous, gentle glide in, breaking every notion of fullness with every in-stroke. And then out, and I’m whimpering at that loss, but it makes the flush of his erection back into me so much better.

I’m arched, spine bowed, and then I lift my backside and my hips to meet his, and I untangle one hand to claw my fingernails down his back and clutch his backside as he slides in, and I’m making a sound that has no one single word. It’s a screaming gasping breathing erotic moan of his name.

“Dawson…”

I repeat it with every swell of his shaft into me. I want to have the words to tell him how this feels, how much I love this, how perfect this is, but I don’t have them. All I can do is try to communicate it with my whimpers and groans, with my whispered utterances of his name.

He continues his glacially slow pace, but he lifts up on one elbow and brushes the tangles of hair from my eyes. “Ride me,” he says.

“What?” I can barely speak even that one-syllable word clearly.

“I want you on top. Ride me. Take your pleasure. Let go.”

I open my mouth to speak, because I’d like a moment to think about it. I like him being in control. I like being able to delve into him and not think or do or anything but feel. But he rolls with me, buried deep inside me, and now I’m straddling him, clinging to his chest, face against his neck, clutching him fearfully as if afraid of falling from a great height. He stills, and I’m full of him, but I need the slide, the motion. I meet his gaze.

“Find where you are in this,” he says. “I took you past the scary part, right? And now I want you to take, rather than give.”

He brushes my hair away, buries his fingers into the roots of my hair just behind my left ear, the other hand resting on my hip. I sit up gradually, slowly, until my legs are bent at the knee, doubled so my calves are nearly parallel to my thighs. I find my balance, sway and steady myself with my palms on his chest. Our eyes are locked, and his hands caress the line of my ribs, a thumb under my breast and then across my ni**les, back down to grasp my hips, then he begins a circuit all over again.

At first I try a simple rocking motion with my hips. I gasp and close my eyes, then do it again. And again, and my gasp turns to an open-mouthed moan. Dawson doesn’t move, just holds my hips and watches me. I lean forward and lift with my hips and core, drawing him almost all the way out, pause with him poised tip in the folds of my cleft, and then bury him deep in a long, fast stroke. I groan loudly, eyes clenching closed and mouth falling open, gasping for breath, and then I draw him out again, nearly out, pause, and impale myself onto him.