Page 57 of Branded
Right.
That was the biggest, most intense thing I was feeling. And it loosened my joints, my spine, had my body melting against his, my arms coming around his shoulders, feeling that bare, hot skin beneath my palms. “I don’t know what I like,” I murmured. “I’ve never even gotten close to having an orgasm with any of the men I’ve slept with.” His head jerked, and I smoothed my hands down his chest. “But I read a lot.” A breath and…I just went for it. “And I have a long list of fantasies.”
Now his head jerk was joined by a wicked smile.
“Yeah?” he asked, pulling me tighter against him, bending his head so his lips trailed along my throat.
I nodded.
“Okay, little bird,” he murmured against my skin.
Then he moved.
One second, I was standing on the bench, our bodies aligned, his mouth on my neck, and the next, he was flipping us so that he was sitting on the bench, and I was straddling his lap, and then he was kissing me.
Not gently.
Not tentatively.
But slamming his mouth onto mine, parting my lips, and tangling our tongues together. That big hand went back to my ass, the other dove into my hair, dislodging my ponytail, his low, deep rumble of a groan vibrating up through his chest, through mine, teasing my nipples, settling somewhere low inside me.
Okay.
It was in my pussy.
That deep, rumbling sound settled right in my pussy.
A nip to my mouth, his lips finding my jaw, sliding down, and sucking roughly at the spot where my shoulder met my throat. I suspected I’d have a mark there the next morning but couldn’t bring myself to care.
Not when he’d yanked the hem of my shirt up and over my head, not when I was gasping as he buried his face in my breasts.
Not as one of his big hands was tugging my bra down.
My breasts popped free.
“Fuck me,” he muttered. “I knew they’d be pink.”
“Smitty,” I whispered.
He glanced up at me, fire in his expression and need stark in the lines of his face. “Oh no, little bird,” he said, clamping down on me when I began rocking on his lap, the hard length of his cock pressing against the seam of my leggings, causing the material to rub against just the right spot. “Not yet. You still haven’t been punished.”
I shivered. “Smitty,” I whispered again, this time not bothering to hide the pleading in my tone.
A steady stream of warm air across my chest.
No. Across one nipple, then the other, the pink tips hardening, beading, begging for his mouth, his teeth and tongue. His hands. His chest.
Anything.
Just so he’d touch me.
Another stream. This one closer to the aching tip.
A flick of his tongue that had a moan tumbling from my tongue. A graze of his beard that had my hands going to his head, trying to pull him down.
He held firm. “No, little bird,” he said, untwining my hands and placing them over my head, pressing lightly until I understood that he wanted me to grip the bottom of the shelf. “Don’t let go,” he ordered.
Then he leaned away, keeping me in his lap, but shifting so that his back was to the wall and my body was a few inches from his mouth.
