Page 45 of Light Up The Night
I've always wondered what this would feel like—having a man's tongue in my mouth. Would I recoil? Would it feel…slimy? Why, I have always wondered, do humans kiss with open mouths, with tongues?
I have my answer.
As far as data points to answer the question, I am disappointed: I cannot explain why we do it. But it ismaddeninglywonderful. When his tongue sweeps over my lips and darts in to tease my tongue, I whimper and then gasp, and I grip his neck and cling hard, desperate for this kiss to continue. His hands leave my cheeks. One curls around the back of my head, holding me into the kiss, and I glory in the resurgence of hope—he wants to kiss me, still. He does not want this to end any more than I do.
His other hand slips down the side of my neck, briefly encircling my throat; instead of feeling choked, however, his touch there settles me. Soothes…yet maddens. And then his hand moves again, and he roams my shoulders, shoulder blades, travels down my spine.
Our mouths part, but he only draws fresh breath and then delves in again, tilted back the other way now, and kisses me again. This one is commanding. He steps into me, crushing his body against mine. My breasts are pancaked between our bodies, and his belt and zipper dig into my belly, and his thighs touch mine. I have never been so close to any man—I have never felt a body against mine like this.
I should be suffering an overload of sensory input, but the kiss consumes my entire mind, and his hands anchor my body to this plane, to this realm. Whatever thoughts and feelings blatter and blast in my mind, I cannot feel them or hear them—there is only Riley.
Only our kiss.
I hear myself emit a sound—a quiet groan, an expression of arousal and pleasure. I have never made such a sound. I marvel that it came from me.
He draws back at the sound. "Fuck." His brow is furrowed; part of me reads it as anger, but his words put the lie to that. "Don't wanna stop. Don't know how."
"Nor I, on both accounts," I admit.
His eyes search my face as his hand drifts down my spine and comes to rest on my lower back, low—mere inches above my coccyx. "You have any fuckin' clue how you make me feel, Cadence?"
I can only shake my head. "No," I admit, after a moment of effort. "Not a one."
"Taste like honey," he whispers, and kisses me—softly, quickly. "So damn soft." His hands skate down my bare arms, leaving piloerection pebbling my flesh wherever he touches. "So…" a kiss, "fucking…" another kiss. "Beautiful."
I am overcome, then. All the blood in my body, it seems, has rushed, confused, to all the wrong parts of my body—my breasts feel engorged and heavy and my nipples ache; the sexual organ at the apex of my thighs feels swollen, yet also…slippery and…wet, in a way that is highly disconcerting and more than a little embarrassing, although I am perfectly aware of the medical symptoms of sexual arousal.
It just feels…strange.
My skin is pebbled all over—the piloerection response to his touch, and it feels too tight around my bones and muscles; were he to touch bare skin right now, I might erupt, I worry.
Erupt with what, I cannot say. This is utterly unexplored territory for me, and all of my medical knowledge has fled me, or, at very least, is of no use. Knowing what is happening to me is no preparation for the reality of experiencing it.
Overcome, flooded with sensation, shaking all over, my knees give out. I cling to him, and he catches me.
Yet, even in catching me, he manages to overload me all the more with a wild, new, maddening sensation:
His hands grip my bottom.
I sprawl against his chest, my weight mostly on him, supported only by his strong, powerful grip on my bottom. My eyes are wide with shock and fear and wonder, and my mind attempts to categorize the sensation.
It fails.
The sensation is too much to be neatly categorized and shelved.
My mouth hangs open and I stare up at him, wide-eyed, wondering, and breathless.
Riley lifts me to my feet…
But does not let go of my bottom.
I…I do not want him to.
I feel a thick, hard, bulgingthingbehind his zipper, pressing against my belly, and I shy away from thinking about that. It is too soon. Too much. Not yet.
A part of me, however—the part that knows exactly what that is—is gleeful. Swollen with pride: I, Cadence Creswell, have caused that reaction in him.
Watching me with hawk-like intensity, Riley gentles his grip on my backside, but instead of moving his hands up to my back or to my waist, he splays his hands wide, cupping my bottom…then smooths them down to where my backside meets my thighs, and then up to my back and then down, and around—caressing, exploring.
