Page 9 of If You Never Come Back
“Yeah, right.” A guy who looks like him must be fighting off women constantly.
“I’m serious, Shay.”
His gentle grip slides to my shoulder. He tilts me back to look down at me. “Look, I don’t mean to freak you out, but I’ve never hit it off like this with someone before. I’ve only known you for an evening, but I really like you. Something about you…” His gaze falls to my neck, my chest, my mouth, then he makes that slow trail back up to my eyes. “Something about you sets me at ease. I noticed it from the get-go, from the moment you stood next to me. And I just…I just want to go with the flow as long as you want to.”
The heat coursing inside me turns to flames. When I press my lips to his, it’s as if no time has passed since our heated kiss in the bathroom hours ago.
With his hands on either side of my face, he pulls me away, breaking our kiss. We both pause to gasp.
“So you feel it too?” he asks.
“One hundred percent.”
I push him across the open space of my studio apartment. He walks backward until the backs of his knees hit the edge of my bed and he falls into a sitting position. Standing over him, I pull my blouse over my head.
Wes’s brow flies up his forehead. “Holy shit...”
Soft, slow-moving hands skim up my torso, stopping at the cups of my bra. When his fingers begin to massage, my head falls back in a moan. I brace myself with my hands on his shoulders.
“You’re gorgeous.” He moans the words, his mouth pressed against my belly.
He kisses upward, the trail marked by the moisture of his tongue and lips. My bra is on the floor before I even register that he’s unlatched it.
One swirl of his tongue around my nipple and I’m gasping. The light scrape of his teeth along the soft skin right under my boob sends my hands to his hair. I try to only give him a light tug, but I fail. I can’t help it. Maintaining total control is impossible against Wes’s mouth.
“You liked to be teased?” he whispers.
I nod down at him. I can only imagine what I must look like, my mouth half-open, my bare chest heaving, my face in what feels like a pleading frown, aching for more.
Without another word, he repeats the same teasing licks, the same teasing scrapes over my other breast. Counting the seconds is the only way I don’t faint. Every slow, wet maneuver of his tongue sends heat to every sensitive spot on my body. Between my legs, I’m throbbing. Every pulse is an ache for release. I need his hand, his cock, his mouth, his anything there very, very soon.
His lips fall away from my skin as he unzips my jeans. “This is okay?” he asks while looking up at me.
He doesn’t move another inch until I nod my approval. The slow fall of denim reveals cotton hipster panties. Wes greets my bare thigh with light kisses, whispering how much he loves the sight before him.
Then he trails that killer mouth from the tops of my thighs to the insides. His kisses are downright addictive. The perfect balance of firmness and softness. And wetness. His tongue…oh boy, his tongue. Wes has perfected the art of tantalizing licks.
When the top of his head grazes the crotch of my panties in the middle of yet another inner thigh kiss, my knees buckle. Just the whisper of contact and I’m a wreck.
“Wes,” I moan. “I can’t stay standing much longer.”
He’s on his feet a half-second later, holding me up with his arms, his chest against my chest. Thank heavens I’ve got his body to lean on. That look on his face, it’s almost menacing. Those dark dilated eyes, those hooded lids, his mouth a straight line. That look conveys intensity, hunger, need. The perfect trio. It’s enough to melt me into a puddle on the hardwood floor beneath me.
I clutch his shoulders with the tenacity of a baby koala. And then that half-smile reappears.
“Good thing you don’t need to be standing for what I’m about to do,” he growls.
He pivots, lowering me to the bed. On my back, I clutch my bedsheets, staring up at the darkened ceiling.
It’s the hook of his thumbs over the hem of my panties that causes my first gasp. They hit the floor, pooling at the tops of my feet before I can even inhale. The soft, light swirl of his tongue is the cause of my second one. And another gasp, and another. The motion never stops. It’s slow and steady, then fast and hard. Then he dials back a notch to even and slow. The entire time I’m panting, begging, moaning.
When his cheeks slide against the insides of my thighs, my lids fly open and I have to silently tell myself not to scream. That combination of sensations—the hard scrape from his stubble mixed with the soft warmth of his tongue—has my brain in a tizzy.
I ask for more, harder, faster, then slower. He listens and follows, like a star pupil that takes direction perfectly.
I groan, then he groans, the vibrations pulsing through my thighs and up my midsection. Chomping down on my lip is the only way I can keep from shouting like a rabid banshee. This pleasure, this heat, this buildup, it’s all too much. I will most certainly explode into a million unrecognizable pieces when he sends me over the edge.
Every lick and lap winds me tighter and tighter.
