Page 78 of Work with Me

“If I do something you don’t like, tell me to stop, okay?”

My eyes widened. What the hell was she going to do to me? What was past full-mast? Because my dick hardened to stone and tried to jab a hole in my sweatpants. “O-okay.”

Then she touched me. Her fingertips trailed lightly from my collarbone over my pecs and twirled into my chest hair. And it set me on fire. My skin hungering for more, I twitched.

With the pad of her thumb, she flicked over my left nipple. Dutifully, it rose to a peak. She pinched it, not hard, but enough to make me suck in a breath.

“You like that?”

“Oh, yes.” It came out as a sigh.

She trailed her fingers over to my right nipple, swirled a finger around it, and pinched.

“Harder,” I grunted.

She raised her eyebrows, but she did it, making white-hot pain sear down from my nipple straight to my groin. I groaned. God, now I wished I’d rubbed one out in the shower. I was going to shoot off the second she touched my dick.

Then she caressed my nipple, soothing the tingling pain. My chest heaved with the effort of gripping the pillows to keep from touching her—or myself. I wasn’t used to delayed gratification. The pulse throbbing in my cock ached.

She glanced back at the tent in my sweatpants. Her smile turned devilish. “Anxious to get started?”

“Please, will you—can I see you?”

She bit her lip but nodded. She unbuttoned her cuffs and then started with the button at the top.

“Slowly?” I gasped. I’d been dreaming of those fucking buttons, jerking off to my own fantasy of her slowly releasing them and revealing what was underneath. This businesslike undressing was too much.

Her fingers froze, and then they moved to the hem. She toyed with the lowest button. “Like this?”

I couldn’t speak past the tightening in my throat, but I nodded, my eyes bugging.

Ever so slowly, she released the buttons on her blouse, giving me peeks at the skin of her stomach and a flash of white lace. I clenched every muscle in my body when she reached the last one. Then she lifted off me and swiveled on her knees to turn her back.

“One more button,” she said with a saucy glance over her shoulder. She splayed her hands on the back of her skirt and slid them to the button at the back. Her long fingers released it, and then they moved to the short zipper below. I saw only a vee of white before she sucked in her breath, whipped off her shirt, and threw it over my face.

“Oops,” she muttered. “I wasn’t planning—just a sec.”

I shook my head to try to dislodge her blouse, but all I could see was white fabric. I heard rustling, and then she snatched her shirt off my face. I blinked. She was completely naked.

I took in the sight of her—smallish breasts, nipped-in-waist, wider hips. The paler skin in the shape of a not-at-all-revealing one-piece swimsuit that made me imagine warm breezes and lying beside her on blinding-white sand. A trim triangle of dark-blond hair concealing her sex. I trailed my gaze up to her face. She was biting her lip again.

“Can I—can I touch?” I uncurled my fingers from the sheets.

She released her lip and smiled. “Only with your mouth.”

“Fuck, yes.”

“I left my shoes on,” she said. “Is that okay?”

“Oh, my God.” The red slingbacks. “Yes, please.”

She knelt on the bed. Then she straddled my chest. Too far away. She curled over me so her breasts hung like ripe fruit over my face. I licked one pink nipple, then the other. She bowed her back, pushing them down toward my face. Slowly, carefully, I raised my hands and pressed her breasts together, swirling my tongue in a figure-eight over the tips. She moaned and ground down over my chest.

I caught one of her breasts in my mouth and sucked hard on the nipple. She gasped but pressed toward me. I crowed inside. She was losing her grip on her control. Because of me. I snaked my hands down her ribs to where her hips flared, then I ran my thumbnails lightly over her ass cheeks. She shivered.

Boldly, I trailed a hand around the curve of her ass to the valley between her legs. Even before I reached her center, my fingers slipped through her slickness. I mapped her with my fingers: lips, her beckoning slit, and her swollen clit. She stilled when I touched it.

“Can I”—I had to swallow to croak the words past my suddenly dry throat—“can I taste you?” I knew it was unfair, but I thrummed her clit as I asked the question.

---