Page 17 of Jessie's Girl
After a long second, she obeys, and a shudder ripples through me as a serrated growl rumbles up my chest and throat, punctuating the air between us.
“Why?” she breathes, and while her obedience thrills me, her refusal to completely surrender excites me. “Why do I have to close my eyes?”
I lean forward so our hands are wedged between us and with my free one I brush her thick curls back and away from her ear with more gentleness than I should be capable of in this moment.
“Because,” I whisper, bringing our hips together so my erection is a hot, insistent presence against her belly and my thighs brace hers. Her gasp caresses my cheek, and a primal possessive urge spikes inside me. It’s my cock cradled against the soft give of her stomach. My cock branding her. “Because you’re looking at me like my dick is already filling up that undoubtedly tight-as-a-fucking-fist pussy,” I grind out the accusation in her ear, my lips grazing the rim, and even that small, almost inconsequential touch is enough to have pre-cum dotting the head of my cock. “Your eyes are begging me to push into you until you can’t take anymore. And then you go ahead and take more. They’re begging me to break you, mold you. And depraved fuck that I am, I want to give it to you.”
A sound that lies somewhere between a whine and a groan echoes in my ear. And I snap.
Two years of not seeing her should’ve cooled this clawing, raw, damn near savage need for her. With the exception of the dreams I had no influence over, I’d convinced myself it had eased. But it’d only lain dormant, waiting for her to return to wake it from its slumber, jack it back up to the howling, consuming lust that’s making a laughing mockery of my control.
I drag my mouth down to her jaw, tracing the delicate line like it’s a treasure map that will lead me to what I covet most—her mouth. With a hunger so strong it should terrify me, I take her lips. Cover them. Bruise them. Thrust my tongue between them.
A faint voice inside my head whispers to slow down, to gentle. But I can’t. The sweet taste of her is riding my tongue now and there’s no holding back. Because she’s tilting her head and opening wider so I can claim more of her. Because she’s sucking on me like I’m her favorite icy treat on a hot summer day. Because she’s digging her fingernails into my back through my thermal shirt. No. No way in hell can I hold back when she’s marking me as hard and thoroughly as I am her.
With one hand twisted in her hair, I release the other from in between our chests and drop it to the wide flare of her hip. God, her curves. They’re so lush, so beautiful, so flagrantly feminine. I can’t stop my fingers from travelling over the rounded flesh. From squeezing it, then following the sensual dip of her waist. From brushing over the gentle swell of her belly. From cupping the modest-but-perfect handful of her breast.
“Fuck,” I snarl against her lips, just as she whimpers my name.
I’ve dreamed about touching her, imagined how her she would fit in my palm. But no fantasy could’ve prepared me for the reality of it. She’s so soft, yet firm. And as I squeeze her, mold her, shape her, I silently admit to myself that I’m damned. Because the knowledge of how sensitive she is, how she arches into my caress, how her hard, little nipple impatiently thrusts against my palm is going to haunt me, a ghost that refuses to be exorcised.
I jerk my mouth from hers and tug up her shirt. Black-lace-covered bronze skin greets me, and my mouth waters as the tip of my cock weeps. I want to claim these beautiful tits with every part of my body—my mouth, my hands, my dick. Even as I yank down a cup, baring her to my greedy eyes, I envision straddling her chest and gliding my aching, thick cock up the valley between her breasts. Fucking her tits has just became a must-do on my bucket list—right after eating her pussy and burying myself balls-deep in it.
I stare at her brown, gleaming skin. Take in the swell of her flesh and the dark-brown beaded tip. Watch as it puckers even more, as if inviting me—no, pleading with me—to swallow her whole. And I can’t deny anything when it comes to India.
“Asa,” she whimpers, dragging her hands from my back to clutch my shoulders. “Please.”
“What, baby girl?” I ask, goading her, knowing what she needs from me. But I want to hear those pretty, dirty words fall on my ears. I tear my gaze from her chest to her face so I can watch them form on her lips. “Please, what?”
A frown creases her forehead and her fingers flex against me. She trembles as if uttering the words aloud is too much.
“Ask for what you need from me, India,” I demand, and as incentive, I brush my thumb across her nipple, drawing a ragged, agonized moan from her.Goddamn. That sound is so fucking pretty. I circle the tip, tracing the dark areola, wanting it to be my tongue. “Now,” I rasp, desperate for that taste.
Her lashes flutter then lower, but her voice doesn’t waver when she whispers, “Suck my breast, Asa. Please,” she tacks on to the end. Her lashes lift, and I’m damn near drowning in the copper depths glazed with passion. With need. “Please make the hurt go away.”
Fuck. Ohfuck.
Whether she’s aware of it or not, she’s hit my easy button. I would move a goddamn mountain to relieve her pain. To ease it. And I would level that same mountain to the ground if she would let me be the cause of the sensual agony darkening her eyes.
I want to be her tormentor and her savior.
Lowering my head, I bury my face between her breasts, breathing in her sultry, musky scent. Jasmine and rain. Perspiration and skin. With a growl, I turn my head, capture her nipple between my lips. Draw hard on it. Tongue it. Scrape my teeth over it.
Her hands abandon my shoulders for my head, her fingers twisting in the strands, tugging. Each pinprick across my scalp enflames my hunger, and I dine on her. My fingers fumble for the other breast. Hook under the bra cup. Yank—
“Uncle Asa!”
Rose’s shout from down the hall douses me in a sheet of ice.
Shit.
Wrenching away from India, I stare down at her, wondering if my eyes are as wide, as filled with shock and lust. Pain ricochets from me, the abrupt jolt of emerging from such pleasure to cold loneliness a blow to my system. For a moment, my mind scrambles to compute that I’m no longer touching her. That her scent isn’t in my nose, my mouth.
“Uncle Asa!” Rose’s voice is closer, and panic spirals up from my clenching gut to my chest, exploding like shrapnel.
Exhaling a rough, jagged breath, I drag a hand through my hair and stalk around India toward the hall, cutting Rose off mid-way. And hopefully granting India enough time to right the mess I made of her.
“What is it, Sweet Pea?”
