Page 62 of Tipping Point

I reach between us to undo his jeans, my urgency matching his, the absence of him unbearable. He breaks our kiss, brings his hand to mine immediately, wraps it around my wrists and pulls my hands up above my head. Pins them there.

No. I want to touch him, too. I want to glide my fingers over the hard planes of his stomach and reach for him below and guide him inside me. I squirm, arching up against him.

He groans and returns to removing my leggings. The moment my hands are free, I wrap my fingers around the hem of my sweater to pull it over my head, but again, he stops me.

My bare stomach draws his gaze like a moth to a flame. He aims to place a kiss there, but gives a frustrated groan instead, pulling the hem of my sweater down slowly, covering my tummy.

I’m confused now. Does he not want-

He kisses me like he wants to possess my very soul. He wants me. He just doesn’t want-

With a flourish, he pulls my leggings free of my other leg. I’m naked from the waist down. He doesn’t pause now. He immediately shifts off me and down and lowers his face between my legs.

From below, he wraps his arms around my thighs, his hands gripping my flesh, dipping where his fingers are pressing into my skin.

He’s not fucking around with kisses or teasing licks. He devours me. His mouth is thick and hot as he sucks down gently and his tongue darts out. I get an involuntary tremor in my thighs. He adjusts, does it again, but softer, so it’s pure pleasure, and not so sensitive.

I reach down for him, surprised, and intervening on instinct, but the moment his hot mouth touches me, I stall. I tangle my fingers into his hair, tugging him closer.

The tempo of his tongue increases.

He alternates it with swirling his tongue around my clit and sucking with his tongue pressed flat against me. The soft little sucks drive me wild. I am going to come.

I want him to stop because I want him inside me when I come, but I don’t want him to stop, either.

My fingers in his hair tug him closer still. He can feel it. My thighs pressing against both sides of his face are trembling violently. He digs his fingers deeper into my flesh, presses down harder with his mouth. When men go down on me, there is always a moment right before I come that I want to pull away, because I know that when I start coming, it will be so sensitive, so deliciously sensitive that it hurts, but you need more to ride out your orgasm, to rub out that fucking need. My fingers in his hair tighten. I’m going to come and I will need to push back to just the right pressure to navigate the sensitivity.

He doesn’t let me push him away. He tugs my thighs up and as I come he slows down completely, his mouth hot and deep and slow as wave after wave tumbles over me, my thighs quivering, and he doesn’t stop, he keeps that achingly slow swirl going and going and draws out that last untouchable aching orgasm out of me until I end with a sensitive tremor, and he pulls aways slowly, keeping the warmth of his face there as I can feel myself clench and unclench rhythmically, slowing down, his hot breath on me keeping me in the moment, allowing me to ride it out to full relaxation.

Fuck me.

I love being gone down on. I always have. This, however. He has devoured me thoroughly and all the way up to my own sensitivity and I want it again. He shifts his body and pulls away slowly.

I love this part too. After I come, I’ll be deliciously tight, and when he forces himself in it will tingle all the way up to my throat and I can’t wait to clench around him as I come again.

I reach for him, but he’s pulling away, pressing my thighs together to keep the warmth of his face there.

He’s looking at me with his black eyes and runs the back of his hand across his mouth.

It drives me wild.

I want to kiss him again and taste myself and I want to return the favour. His hands travel slowly towards my knees, pressed together, and he sits up, looking down at me with ravenous regret.

I push up on my elbows.

“I have to go.” He frowns.

“What?”

“I have to leave now.”

He stands up and I can see his dick straining against his jeans, raging for release. He wants me, but he takes a step back, adjusts himself.

“Finn?”

“Camille.” He says it like it’s a wound, a painful thing.

He turns, snatches his shirt off the floor. He pauses to take me in, gives a frustrated grunt and in three big steps he’s at the door and wrenches it open, and when it closes behind him I’m left wondering what the fuck just happened?

---