Page 94 of The Cabin
He braces himself on an elbow and a hip, beside me more than above me, now, and his kiss seems to slow, as if settling in for the long haul. His hand caresses my breasts, his touch deft and greedy and soft. My breasts feel heavy, taut, my nipples sensitive, and his touch draws fire in my belly. And then, the fire in my belly hardens and descends lower, to the delicacy of my folds, the apex of my thighs. His touch moves there. I’m trembling, afraid and eager at once, and I’m grateful he takes his time. He doesn’t just plunge right to touching, but explores me first, and never stops kissing me. He touches along my thigh, over the top, everywhere. And when he does touch me at last, it’s gentle and slow and light, tracing the seam. I hold on to his neck and his shoulder, angled toward him, one thigh flung aside, opening myself to his touch. I’m greedy for it even as I tremble in anticipation, more than a little fear, as a million what-ifs crash through my mind.
Doubts are silenced when he slips a fingertip through me, and then finds the nexus of my need. I moan, and then he follows the trail of my whimpers and lifted hips to discover what moves me, what draws groans from me. He learns me, becomes a student of me. I can feel him memorizing my whimpers, absorbing the knowledge of where and how his touch makes me shift under him, lift, pulse against him.
Despite my desire, my nerves dull the sharpness, and it takes a while. He is patient, pulling back when I need it, racing ahead when I’m ready. He knows my rhythms, somehow. His touch circles, and I’m on the edge. Teetering, unable to topple over.
I’m becoming frustrated. I want to.
He slides a finger into me, gathers wetness. Pauses, there, just like that. “Nadia.”
I open my eyes. “Hmm?”
“Relax.”
“I can’t. I’m so worked up, and I’m getting frustrated because I can’t just…”
He finishes my sentence for me with a kiss. “Just breathe.” I take a breath. “Now look at me.”
I meet his eyes. “This is us. You and me. Nothing else. No pressure. All the time in the world. If you’re not ready, it’s okay.”
I shake my head, and reach for him. “I want to. But I think I’m just so keyed up from anticipation, that I just…”
His eyes go heavy-lidded as I gather him in my hand, for the first time. So much of him, more than I was even expecting, and given the overall size of the man, I was expecting a lot. So hard, but the flesh sheathing his hardness is silken, almost delicate, thin, with a tracery of veins. I look where I’m touching, and watch as my hand slides down his length, and he groans.
“Go easy,” he murmurs. “Been…a while. Might not take as long as I’d like if you do that too much.”
I smile, and keep doing what I want: touching him. “Your rule, remember? No explanations, no apologies.” Both hands, then, because the size of him requires two. “We have all the time in the world. If it’s quick the first time, then we’ll have all night and all day and as long as we want.”
His fingers resume their exploration. “You’re so soft, so wet.”
“Nathan?” I swallow hard, tasting a bold question on my lips. “Could you…would you use your mouth? On me? Please?”
He smiles, a heated, pleased smirk. “I love that you asked.”
“I was kinda scared to. But I need it. If you want to, that is. If you don’t, that’s fine, I just—”
Once again, his mouth on mine silences me. “I want to.”
I close my eyes as his mouth teases downward, kissing my shoulder, my breastbone, licking my nipples to hard peaks, and then kissing downward, over my belly, and I involuntarily draw my stomach in as he touches his lips to my seam. A flick of his tongue, and I gasp, and my feet draw up to the backs of my thighs and my knees angle away, and his tongue delves into me, and then drags luxuriously upward, and then there’s an explosion of sensations all at once, as his tongue and lips find the nadir of my desire and makes my sex sing, and his fingers are everywhere, in me and twisting my nipples and cupping my breast and it’s all so much all at once and I’m crying out, maybe just flat-out crying, sobbing or screaming I don’t even know or care, I’m just a far-flung spark of a mind hurtling through the space of an endless climax.
He keeps me there and refuses to relent, and the waveform of climax dips to a brief trough of between, and then he does something else and I’m riding another crest and his hair is soft on my belly and his beard scratchy against my inner thighs and his tongue is clever and his fingers strong and gentle. I can’t take any more, I’ll explode if there’s more—but there is, and I fling through that as well, and each time I think I’ve reached as far as I can go, that I’ve come as hard as I can come, he finds a way to push me past that edge.
