Page 86 of Every Step She Takes
“Then do it.”
When I don’t move my tingling limbs, she takes my hand in hers and gently presses it to her chest, right over the compass tattoo. She guides my hand across her rib cage, over her breasts, down her stomach. Then her hand falls away, leaving me to chart my own course.
Time ceases to exist once more as I trace one finger around the knot of her hip bone. She shivers, and I move my hand up the subtle curve of her waist, up toward those lovely nipples.
When my fingertips touch the edge of her left breast, Mal inhales sharply, but she’s otherwise motionless, allowing my hand to explore at its own pace. Slowly, I crawl the pads of my fingers across the underside of her breast, then up to those red-wine areolas, ghosting over the goose bumps around her nipple. When I take her skin between two fingers, Mal arches into mytouch. The restless buzz is between my legs again, the horrible, wonderful need for relief. I rock my hips against her, desperate for pressure or friction or anything.
“All you have to do is ask,” she says, barely above a whisper.
“Kiss me?”
“Where?” she asks, but I’m already reaching for her and pulling her on top of me until her mouth crashes into mine.
Pleasure sears across my lips, sweeps down my whole body in a fiery current. She straddles me, kisses me messily, like she’s as overcome by feeling as I am. Her knees are on either side of my hips, and I run my hands up her thighs. I grasp her hips and yank her even closer, trying to rub myself against her like I did before, and I’m rewarded with a wordless growl. Each point of contact between our bodies feels like a shock of electricity.
Mal smothers me with her weight. She’s over me, on top of me, her growling voice is in my ear. “Tell me where you want my mouth.”
“I want it on my… wrist.” The word slips out in a frenzy of feeling, and I cringe.My wrist?I’m drunk on her red-wine nipples. That’s the only possible explanation for why I saidmy wrist.
Mal sits up. The sharp points of her ass dig into my stomach as she reaches for my hand. She lifts it to her mouth and tenderly kisses my wrist bone, just below our matching tattoo.
I laugh underneath her, and our bodies vibrate together from the sound. “Why am I so awful at this?”
“I’m into it, actually.” Mal turns my arm so that the delicate skin on the inside of my wrist is facing her mouth. And then she licks slowly, like my skin is pistachio ice cream. “Wrist play is totally hot.”
I laugh again. Is there usually this much laughter in sex, or am I doing something horribly wrong?
Another cocky head tilt. “Do you want to see what I can do with my wrist?”
I stop laughing. I very much do.
Her right hand finds the swell of my lower stomach, and we’re back to electric touches. “You’re so soft and smooth,” she murmurs admiringly as her hand inches toward the waistband of my pajama shorts, then lower, fingers stroking the outside of my underwear. I clamp down on my jaw to stop any mortifying sounds from escaping.
She lifts her hips up off me so her two fingers rub against my clit through the fabric. It’s pressure and friction andeverything.
I close my eyes, tilt my head back against the mattress, and try to return to that place where shame and modesty don’t exist. I try to let my body experience whatever pleasure it wants as she moves in agonizingly soft, slow circles. And just when I think I might lose my mind, she drives her hips down to increase the pressure against me. I curse. I maybe lose consciousness. It’s hard to know for sure.
“How do you want me to touch you?”
“Huh urm lerf.” That’s as close as I can get to words as Mal draws those maddening circles against my body. She moves her hand beneath the fabric, so there’s finally nothing between her skin and my skin, and I feel like I’ll die before her hot fingers graze my bare clit.
Then they do, and I wince.
“Oh, shit. Sorry.” Mal pulls her hand away for a minute. “I don’t have any lube.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” Mal scolds. She sticks her index and middle finger into her mouth, and sucks, and I definitely lose consciousness this time. When she pulls her fingers out of her mouth, they’re slick with saliva. She finds her way back between my legs, and this time, her fingers glide smoothly over my clit.
It’s five hundred times better than any time I’ve touched myself. Mal’s fingers are like a confident instrument tuned to my body, responding to my every gasp, my every curse, readingme so perfectly. She’s over me, on me, rocking against me as her strokes get harder, then softer, then faster.
I’m dizzy. I’m delighted. I think I’m laughing again. “God diggity damn,” I moan, and Mal shifts her hand lower, and— “Oh, ouch!” I screech.
Mal’s hand freezes in place. “What? Are you okay?”
“Sorry!” I blurt, and then I attempt to cover my face with the pillow.
“No sorrys during sex!” Mal pulls her hand away from my body and moves the pillow out of my face. “Did I hurt you?”
