Page 65 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
Hot and wet and deep.
Slow and steady and unhurried.
Meanwhile, I feel…
Needy. Desperate. Ready to strip all of his clothes off.
His releases my mouth, trails his lips across my cheek, my jaw, laving at my earlobe. Then down, along my throat, across my collarbones, using his nose to nudge at one of my tank top’s straps. It falls and then he’s kissing me there, the stubble of his beard the sweetest abrasion. He takes his time, worshiping the spot with lips and tongue and the barest flash of teeth. Then he’s softly kissing along my skin, gentle presses of his mouth that lift goose bumps in their wake.
Until he’s made it to the other side.
Until he’s nudging that strap down.
My tank top drops a few inches, catching on the tips of my breasts, one tug, one deep breath away from completely exposing myself.
The thought has moisture gathering between my legs, need coiling in my belly.
My nipples tingle and I hold my breath, the material teasing me.
Or maybe that’s Gray.
Because he’s started kissing his way down the tops of my breasts, growing closer and closer to the hardened buds of my nipples, but never quite getting there. Down, down. Close, closer. Hot, damp air. Slick, firm tongue. And then away again.
Until I’m trembling.
Until I’m diving my uninjured hand into his hair, holding his mouth against me.
Or maybe…I’m nudging it down, coaxing him toward the edge of the material, silently urging him to get it out of the way.
“Red?” His question is a hot glaze on my skin.
“Y-yeah?” I run my fingers through the silken strands of his hair.
“You ever done this before?”
I still.
Then my fingers tighten and his head shifts, eyes coming to mine.
“What are you asking?” My heart is pounding, embarrassment is beginning to claw at my insides.
Does he—? Could he possibly—? Oh, God, he thinks I’m a vir?—
“You kiss like sin, Red.” A nip to the curve of my breast. “But you said you’ve been alone, baby. If you haven’t done this, that’s okay. I just need to know, so I can treat you right.”
More embarrassment.
But that’s quickly chased aside.
By affection.
“If I knew how wonderful you were,” I murmur, cupping his jaw, “I would have worked up the courage to talk to you sooner.” He leans into my touch and relief loosens something old and tight and ugly inside me. “But I’m not a virgin, Gray.”
“Thank fuck,” he groans, dropping his face between my breasts. “And you did talk to me,” he says against my skin, lightly rubbing his face, side to side, side to side.
A gentle motorboat.
Only, it doesn’t make me laugh.
