Page 68 of Light Up The Night
What if I cannot bring him pleasure?
What if I panic and cannot function?
What if my mind will not allow me to enjoy this?
What if I displease him and he wants to stop?
What if he rejects me?
What if I cannot bring myself to touch him intimately?
What if…?
What if…?
What if…?
"Hey," his voice murmurs. "Come back to me."
"I am here," I mumble.
Levered over me, he traces a fingertip from temple to jaw corner to chin. "Nah, babe, you went somewhere else, mentally."
"Oh, Yes. I…" I swallow hard. "I apologize."
"Care to share?"
"What I was thinking?"
“Yeah."
I let out a breath. "Fears. Worries. A mental storm of what-ifs."
"Then I'd better do a better job of distracting that amazing brain of yours, huh?" He kisses the corner of my mouth, and then my jawline, and then the underside of my chin, and then my throat, and with each next kiss, my heart beats a little faster. “The most important thing, Cadence, is that you talk to me. Or, communicate, at least."
He kisses lower on my throat, and his hand cups my waist between ribcage and hip. My pulse slams harder at the idea that his hand might drift up…or down.
"Talkingiscommunicating," I answer, my voice soft and breathy, and I find myself tipping my head up so he has better access for kissing my throat, which, oddly, is quite arousing—I had not considered one's throat to be erogenous. "How else would I communicate except by speaking?"
“You just did it," he answers. "Tipping your head back like that tells me you like it when I do this…" he kisses my throat again, above my Adam's apple, and then lower and lower, until he is kissing my suprasternal notch.
"Yes," I breathe, unable to summon my full voice. "Yes, I do."
"If I'm doing it right, you won't always be able to talk," he says, and kisses lower yet, centimeters above the neckline of my dress. "So just find a way, nonverbal if necessary, to let me know if you like something. If you don't want me to touch somewhere, push my hand away. If youdowant me to touch somewhere,guide me there. Gasps, sighs, groans, things like that also tell me you're liking something."
He brings his mouth back to mine, and this kiss is all tongue immediately, and the hot pressure behind my navel pulsates. His hand drifts toward my midline, his palm covering the precise location in which I feel the heat and pressure. His tongue moves on mine, and I dance my tongue against his. This feels kind of silly at first, like a child’s game of thumb war except with tongues. But then, when I sweep my tongue through his mouth, he groans low in his throat like a grumbly grizzly bear, and the hot pressure in my belly sinks southward, building behind my privates. I do it again, and receive a similar response from him—I touch his cheek, and then slide my fingers into his hair at his temple, and then above his ear, and then I cup his neck and find myself at war with his tongue, as if we are each seeking some kind of supremacy over the other, though I know not what victory would look like in this case. My belly flutters the more I kiss him in this manner, however, and my mind is mercifully, blessedly quiet—I think my hyperfocus is taking over. There is only this—only Riley, only his body, his tongue, his hands, only the wild, alien barrage of sensations as he kisses me.
His hand carves up over my belly and halts at my sternum. His thumb presses against the underwire of my bra at the center point between the cups. My heart crashes in my chest crazily, anticipating. He pulls away from the kiss, gazes down at me—I open my mouth to say something, I do not know what, and then…
His large hand cups my breast—over the dress and over the bra, but still. Riley is touching my breast. My nipples harden into achy, tender bullets. I am absolutely certain he can feel the hard point of my nipple even through the two layers of material; I am not sure whether I should be embarrassed about this.
He kisses my breastbone, and then along the neckline of my dress. to my shoulder. He kisses the round of my shoulder, and his finger deftly prods the broad, shallow neckline of my dress over the edge of my shoulder. My bra strap shows, now. I restrain myself from tugging my dress in place—I assume he did that on purpose.
I must let him; I want him to.
He kisses me again, now at the juncture where shoulder and arm meet, the tender crease there. Now, the other side, where he does the same, gently slipping my dress's neckline down, and now the upper slopes of my breasts are exposed. My bra is a plain black full coverage one, as I am a practical, utilitarian woman with no interest in or need for lacy, unsupportive, and immodest undergarments which no one will ever see.
He kisses my breastbone from left to right, right to left, subtly lowering my neckline with each kiss. And then he brings his mouth to mine and claims a hot, wet kiss that short-circuits my brain, causing me to gasp into his mouth and lift up and lean into him, ratcheting up the intensity of the kiss.
