He releases my nipple from his mouth, and a knowing smile touches his lips. Watching me, he licks the hardened tip, nuzzles the underside of my breast, and takes a tiny bite, sending a starburst of sensation washing over me in a red haze before he soothes me with his warm palm. He kisses his way to my other breast and teases me. He blows on my nipple, licks it lightly, pinches it with his fingertips, and then he takes me into his mouth and draws with exquisite pressure.
I cling to him, alternately gasping and hissing through my teeth as he caresses me with his hands and mouth. It turns out I am absolutely crazy about breast play. I had no clue.
When our lips meet again, I kiss him with abandon, tangling my tongue with his as I touch him everywhere my hands can reach. His chest, his shoulders, the broad expanse of his back, his head. His closely buzzed hair scrapes against my palms in the most interesting way.
He shifts against me, pulling my thigh up along his side, and rolls his hips. I feel him, hard where I’m soft, and I know what’s coming. The good part of sex is ending, and the not-so-good part is starting. I don’t mind, though. This has been the best sex of my life.
I expect him to sit back and remove our underwear so we can get things moving, but he doesn’t. He continues kissing me, touching me. One hand cups my face, tilting my head back so he can kiss me deeper. With his other hand, he strokes my thigh, my butt, squeezes it.
“What do you like, Anna?” he whispers.
When I stare at him, completely stunned by the question, he works his hand between us and eases his fingers beneath the waistband of my underwear. I catch my breath when his fingertips slip through my folds and explore me with languid strokes. I’m wet, extremely so, and that’s unusual for me. When Julian and I have sex, it’s uncomfortable for both of us until my body eventually warms up and self-lubricates, but even then, I’m not like this.
He trails his mouth to my ear and asks, “How about this?”
I don’t know what he means until he begins circling my clitoris in slow, gentle circles. It feels . . . almost good. So close to good. If he would just—
His slippery fingertips shift and rub directly over me as he nips my ear. A moan escapes my throat—that bite, I don’t know why I like it so much, but I do—and he continues the same motion with his fingers, which, again, is almost good. I hide my face against his neck as he strokes me. It’s arousing. I get wetter. But it’s not what I need.
“Anna,” he asks, teasing a finger into me just the barest bit. “How do you like to be touched?”
I press my face tighter to his neck. I want to be the kind of woman who can boldly tell a man how she likes to have her sex touched. But I can’t answer him. Someone could threaten to kill me right
now, and I still couldn’t answer. I wish he just knew. Why don’t men just know?
His finger pushes deeper into me, and I arch into the penetration, surprised when he slides in with little resistance.
“More?” he asks, and a second finger works into me gradually.
I love the sensation as my body stretches to accept him. It’s decadent and unbearably sexy, but it isn’t long before the pleasure ebbs. When he strokes his fingers in and out and curls them, touching me deep inside, it’s nice. But that’s it. Just nice.
Clinging to him tightly, unable to look at him, I whisper, “I’m ready now.”
“Ready for what?” he asks.
“Ready for you.”
ELEVEN
Quan
If there was any question whether or not things were in working condition, it’s definitely answered now. My cock is so hard I hurt. She’s soft and tight against my fingers, drenching me, and I want inside her.
“Is that what it takes for you to come?” I ask, breathing kisses into her hair because her face is hidden from me.
Instead of answering, she hugs me tighter and burrows closer, and feelings of tenderness nearly overwhelm me.
“Anna?”
Silence. At this point, the first shreds of worry creep into my mind.
“Can you talk to me? Did I do something wrong? If I did, just tell me, and I’ll fix it. I want this to be good for you.” That’s important to me, maybe more important now than it’s ever been in the past.
“Can’t we just . . . keep going?” she asks without looking at me. She runs her hand down my arm and then presses on my hand that’s between her thighs, undulates against it, so my fingers push deeper into her. Fuck, that’s hot. “This is fine.”
Fine? I don’t want sex with me to be fine. I try to ease her away from my neck, so I can see her face. “Will that be—”
She presses her mouth to mine before I can finish the question, and hell if I don’t respond. I could kiss her for hours, just kissing, nothing else. Her mouth is perfect, her tongue, those breathless sounds she makes.