Page 24 of Zeppelin
It would be unlike anything I’ve ever had or done before.
I wouldn’t be able to just hold parts of myself back. I couldn’t parcel myself up and brick off certain aspects of my life, my body, my brain, my emotions, and my heart.
How do I know that?
How do I fuckingknowthat?
I have every reason not to, and this is just one more, but I drive up onto my toes, grasp his broad shoulders, and kiss what I can reach. He doesn’t tilt his face, so that’s his chin. That’s as far as I get. But his neck is there. His throat. His pulse point. His earlobe.
My mouth waters at the uncharacteristic thought of biting him. That’s not really my kink. I don’t get a chance to even kiss or taste him anywhere. His chin tips forward. His hand tracks up my shoulder and tilts my face up and then his mouth slants over mine.
I whimper immediately, needing to be closer, that first taste sealing a fate I don’t even fully understand, but I know I want to sink into it. I want to devour and be devoured. I want to own and be owned. I have this absurd thought about giving this man something I’ve never given anyone before, an intimate peekinto the parts of myself I keep just for me, but then his tongue slips into my mouth, finding mine and stroking it in a sensual rhythm that chases away any possible room for thought at all.
His hand cups my chin and then curls around my jaw, travelling through the strands of my hair until it brackets the back of my neck.
I fall into him, driving him back until I’m the one pinning him to the wall. The soft curves of my body jut up against the hard parts of his. He’s sweated through his t-shirt. He’s damp, but he’s also a furnace. He’s rock hard against my palms, against my breasts and peaked nipples, and between my legs. I roll my hips into his groin. A shockwave of pleasure trickles from my mouth right down to my toes curled hard in my flip-flops. There’s something wrong with me that the feel of his sweat soaked t-shirt and the smell of male and cloves and spearmint makes me wild. People talk about how men have that more primitive sense, but I was built with it too. I like it hard, hot, messy, sweaty, andcarnal.
I stroke one hand down his hard, boxed abs, then trail it to his back, mapping the sinewy muscles outlined through his damp shirt. He might as well be naked. The thin cotton does nothing but keep his skin from pressing against mine. It doesn’t hide a single detail of his body. He’s all raw power beneath my hands, in the way he kisses me hungrily, in the throbbing of his erection right through his jeans, pressing against my belly.
My belly. Where I’m carrying his brother’s child.
Fuck.
I rear back so hard that I nearly bite him in the process. He tilts his face at the last second, saving himself a bloody lip.
“Sorry,” I pant, my hand hovering near my mouth anxiously. I bury the other in the folds of my dress. “Sorry.”
He knows I don’t mean about the near miss.
It’s the near miss that wedidn’tavoid that counts.
My hands are still burning from the warmth and sheer power of his sculpted body, my mouth and lips tingling from his kiss, my stomach flipping all over the place from the way his jeans failed to prevent the definition of his cock from pulsing against me, and how badly I want to shed our clothes and feel him doing that as he fills me.
The world has told me that I’ve been wrong for the things I’ve done my whole life. Women shouldn’t have desires like men. Women shouldn’t have dark desires or taboo fantasies. A woman shouldn’t want to be the one who doesn’t want something serious or something that lasts. Women don’t initiate. Women aren’t wild. Women don’t love sex. Women don’t crave. They don’t have animalistic impulses. All my life, I’ve had one simple thought that encompasses all those backwards stereotypes dumped on females.
Screw that. I’ll be who I want to be and I refuse to be ashamed.
I’ve never done things the conventional way, but it’shighly irregularto be down here in a cellar with Zeppelin, who he is, and all that he represents.
Zeppelin’s hand splays over my lower back rubbing a small circle there while I carry on an internal conversation with myself about whether I should be doing this.
His eyes are dark and fathomless, his face twisted, almost ravaged. It’s all desire. Hard as I search, I don’t find a singletrace of guilt or revulsion there. A touch of amusement, though I don’t know what’s funny. It’s maybe more amazement and shock that translates into humor because that’s the only way he can process it.
“A regular person wouldn’t do this, would they?” My words seem to shimmer in the glow from my phone.
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know that we’re regular people.”
That’s the answer I need, the only thing I need to hear. He’s not sorry. He doesn’t have regrets. He’s already weighed the cost of this, whatever its and however far it goes, against not doing it and always wondering what would have happened if we did.
I step back into him when the hand at my back draws me in against his body. He’s radiating heat and want, a brutal sort of lust that overrides everything else—reason, sanity, better judgment—and I know he feels it every bit as intensely as I do.
Honestly, just about always, I’m the one who makes the first move. I’m the sexual aggressor. I’m the one who shows and asks, explains and demands, guides and demonstrates. I’m not embarrassed to demonstrate how I want to be touched, if that’s what it takes or give a command. I’ve always secretly wished that someone else would take control and manhandle me a little. Not roughly, just… I guess I’ve always wanted to find someone who could blow past the barriers I erect and possess me. Maybe more than just my body, but even physically would be a good place to start.
When Zeppelin kisses me, it’s demanding. Unyielding. Searching. Brutal. He’s still gentle, but this time, I get to feel all his hard edges. I kiss him back, but instead of me fightingagainst him, it only serves to deepen the kiss. He moves in tandem with me, kissing me the way I’ve always dreamed of being kissed.
He does it all, tongue stroking mine, his hand at my back, and then he spins me around, walking me back and pinning me against the wooden wall.
I gasp as he gathers my wrists in his hand and raises them above my head. The cellar has a surprisingly high ceiling. It’s dug down deep, so that even Zeppelin, with all his height, doesn’t have to worry about knocking himself senseless on the beams above.
