Page 37 of Healing Hearts
Then he’s cradled between my legs, my dress around my waist, and he’s back kissing me, his rough hands kneading and gently squeezing while he rocks between my thighs. He’s hard against my sensitive core, and I moan at each contact.
I can’t even remember the last time I was so turned on. Even getting myself off hasn’t been that great the last few years, as though my brain can’t find anything worth imagining.
The reality of this, though—I’ll have memories, remembered sensations, for years. There’s definitely something chemical between me and Trent—pheromones on overdrive.
He pulls me up, my dress goes over my head with my bra, and then I’m left in just my panties. He tugs at the back of his shirt, drawing it over his head, and I can’t help scanning his muscles, the tattoos that litter his chest. I want to trace each one with my tongue, ask why he got them and what they mean.
His jeans drop to the floor, and then he’s just in his boxer briefs, clearly as turned on as I am.
“I’ve got one rule, Em,” he says, his voice husky.
I drag my gaze from his body to make eye contact. “What’s that?”
“I don’t get off unless you get off.”
“That doesn’t make practical sense,” I say, quickly calculating the number of times I’ve orgasmed during sex. It’s not nothing, but it’s definitely not every time.
“I don’t care about practical,” he says, dropping to his knees, his fingers running along my soaked panties. “And I can definitely work with this.” He tugs my panties down my legs and then spreads me wide. “You’re so fucking wet for me. I can’t wait to taste you.”
Then his mouth is one me, and I arch my back at the contact. The last time a guy had his mouth on me was in college, and it wasn’t anything like this.
Trent’s tongue is magic, and suddenly his rule doesn’t seem so impossible to not just reach but sustain. I have never been so sure I could come before.
When he slips two fingers inside, I cry out from the need building inside me.
“Trent,” I gasp.
“That might be my new favorite way you say my name,” he mutters against my thigh while his fingers work me over, and then he’s back with his mouth and tongue. “I love the taste of you, and you’re going to come for me, like a good fucking girl, aren’t you, Em?”
Holy fuck. I don’t know what he does, but my orgasm hits me like a freight train. And I absolutely cannot control not only how loud I am, but how intense it all feels. It’s like he found some secret well of pent-up orgasms and set them all off at once.
He kisses his way up my body, and he buries his face in my neck while I feel like liquid, full of life and lifeless all at once.
“Trent,” I say, and I can’t help the amazement in my voice.
“I’m going to hate the sound of my name coming out of anyone else’s mouth after this,” he says, “cause that one is also a winner.”
“You’ve had those skills this whole time?” I murmur.
He chuckles against my neck and then he smooths back my hair when he makes eye contact. “You might have been wound a bit tight.”
Understatement of the year. And then it occurs to me that we haven’t even done the thing we were supposed to do.
“I got off,” I say, another understatement, “so now you get off.”
“I didn’t want to rush you,” he says. “And I bought lube, but I don’t think we need that.”
I cover my eyes, and I laugh a little. “No, I don’t think we do.”
“It’s flattering.” He tugs my arm off my face. “I just didn’t want to assume.” His eye contact is intense. “Don’t hide from me. You’re not allowed to hide from me.”
Then he sheds his boxer briefs, and my eyes widen at his length and girth. It’s been a while, but he seems slightly above average. Not like “Oh my god, it’ll never fit,” but definitely substantial.
He sits on a towel on the couch and places another one next to him. Then he encourages me to straddle his lap, which I do. His hands go into my hair, and he says, “You can still change your mind. No hard feelings.”
I wiggle against him. “Something is definitely feeling hard.”
“Em.” He searches my expression, not at all into my jokes.
