Stripped (Stripped #1)(55)
Author: Jasinda Wilder

When I’m sure he’s done coming, I take my mouth off him, but he’s still sort of hard, and I love the feel of his erection in my hand, so I hold on to him and keep stroking him gently. He shudders with each touch, as if hypersensitive. My cheek is on his belly, and I’m afforded a close-up look at him, at his manhood. It’s a beautiful thing. I’ve overheard girls, including my roommate Lizzie, talk about how—despite how good they feel—men’s privates are ugly. Although they used the word “cock,” which makes me cringe just thinking it, but I’m not sure what other word to use. I don’t agree with those girls. Dawson is beautiful all over, every bit of him.

Eventually he draws me up to his chest, into the nook of his shoulder, and we sleep again.

The next time I wake up, it’s slowly, gradually. It’s either late or early, somewhere in the dark hours of the night or morning. There’s a touch of gray on the horizon, making me think it’s early. I’ve never slept naked with a man before, obviously. His arm is draped over my hip, his face buried against my back, his breathing deep and even. We’re both still naked, covered now by the blanket and sheet. I love this feeling. I’m protected, safe, sheltered. He loves me, he’s holding me close, even in sleep.

And then I become aware of something: His manhood…his cock…is nestled against me. It’s hard, fully erect and thick. He got up at some point after we made love the first time to discard the condom, and now, in the dim light of predawn, I see another square on the bedside table near me.

I feel his…I think the word more easily, but still with a guilty cringe…his c**k between the cheeks of my bottom, and I’m greedy for it. I want to be filled by him again. I need it. I’m…so desperate for it that I can’t think of anything else.

I reach for the condom, and it crinkles noisily in the silent room. I examine it, a gray plastic square, Trojan written in white lettering. I rip it open and pull out what’s inside. It’s a circle of slippery rubber, or latex, actually, a thicker ridge surrounding transparent latex so thin as to be nearly invisible. Which is the point, I suppose. I unroll it a little, and then I realize Dawson’s breathing has shifted.

He’s awake.

I roll in place, and meet his sleepy gaze. He just smiles at me, lifts a heavy hand, and brushes his thumb across my cheekbone. I glance down between us and fit the condom over the tip of him, then clutch him near the base and hold him still, unrolling the latex over him slowly with one hand at first, then both, hand over hand until the ridged rim is flush against his pelvis. Dawson reaches down and pinches the tip a little, leaving a gap near the tip. He reaches for me, starts to move, but I just shake my head. I turn in place again, and press my back to his front. I spoon myself to him, and wriggle my hips until his thickness is buried where it was originally. Dawson cups my hip in his hand and presses a tender kiss to my shoulder blade. I wait until the desperation inside me cannot be denied, and then I reach down between us and guide the thick head of him inside me. I’m wet down there, damp and hot and slick. He slides deep into my core. He’s in me, there. Buried home. Neither of us moves for a long moment, and then he rolls his hips and I moan, and he groans in tandem with me.

And then, oh, god, his fingers delve to the apex of my cleft and slip in, and I press my hips outward to allow him access, and he’s pressing with his long middle finger, and we’re moving together. I shift my hips away, and he pulls his erection out, and then we push ourselves together. It’s clumsy at first, but then we find a rhythm, and his fingers…oh, god, the way he touches me makes me come apart before I’ve even stroked a dozen times against him, and I’m shuddering and gasping with my mouth open wide in a silent scream, and then a few moments later it happens again, and I’m breathless and he’s desperate against me, moving as if he can’t find enough purchase to let go.

Dawson shifts, and I’m lying on my back on top of him. Oh…whoa. One hand is at my cleft, giving me orgasm after orgasm, and the other is on my breast. He takes my hand in his, and we work my ni**les together, and he’s crushing up and into me, and he’s so, so, so deep that I nearly can’t take it, but I do I take it and I love it and I need it.

And then he challenges me again. He moves my hand, tangled in his, to my clitoris, and we stimulate me together, and that’s the most erotic thing I can imagine, until he takes his hand away and watches me. Both of his hands are tweaking and pinching my ni**les, and I’m moaning, and now I—oh…oh—I touch myself and with him buried deep, I can touch myself in a way that even he can’t. I feel a rhythm inside me, matched to some nebulous pattern inside me, a slow-to-fast rhythm all its own that has me too breathless to scream, hoarsely moaning and arching forward, and I feel Dawson watching me touch myself, and I know it makes him crazy, so I touch myself all the more vigorously.

I don’t recognize myself.

I’m on top of a man I’ve only known for a matter of weeks, and I’m in love with him, and he’s in love with me, and his c**k is buried to the hilt inside me, and I’m touching myself as he rolls my thick pink ni**les between his thumb and forefinger. I’m chanting his name and he’s murmuring mine, and we’re lost to each other.

It’s heaven…

…but I don’t recognize myself.

He explodes. Dawson calls my name, shouts my name, and I cry his, and he comes. And I come again. His hands clutch my br**sts, and then one hand is on my hip, crushing me against him with every desperate thrust, and our voices are a song together, our bodies are moving in a dance, synchronized beauty, perfectly matched motion.

Who is this woman doing this? Making love with such wild and desperate sensuality?

I can almost see us, see myself as if from above. My br**sts bounce and jiggle with each thrust of the man beneath me. His hands paw and claw at me, and I shove my chest into his touch, because I love his touch. And me…my own hand is between my thighs, touching my privates. My other hand is up behind me, grasping at Dawson’s face and neck. His eyes watch me, watch my moving hand, watch my bouncing br**sts.

“God, I love you,” he whispers as he comes.

Who am I? Who am I, that this man loves me?

I’m not a film student, I’m not a stripper, I’m not a dancer, I’m not anyone. I’m just Grey Amundsen. But this glorious man, this near-deity…he loves me.

Why?

What am I, that he feels so strongly about me? What do I offer?