Page 55 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
His teeth saw at my nipple and then he suckles on it, and my knees go weak, shaking, and then give out. Franco catches me, lifts me up, and scoops me into his arms.
Dammit, dammit, dammit—my heart is palpitating and hammering and flipping, and my stomach is fluttering and every nerve and synapse and sense is singing and attuned to Franco, to his body and his strength. His eyes are on mine… and mine are on his lips. I’m so close.
But I don’t kiss him. I don’t dare…do I?
I’m still breathless from his kiss and his mouth is right there, and I need to taste him again, need to feel that moan as his mouth slashes across mine. Screw it. My arms tighten around his neck and my lips slant over his, my tongue finding his lips and then his tongue and I’m breathing him, tasting him. The kiss is breathless. Aching.
Exquisite.
Heart-rending.
Perfect.
How long? I don’t know, but not long enough.
Finally, his arms shake from the exertion of holding me there. He moves into another room, and I have the brief sense of being in his living room—a couch, a TV, a glass coffee table, an easy chair. And then he’s twisting again and I’m weightless—he’s thrown me onto the bed. I land with a whump onto a firm mattress covered by a thick comforter—there’s no time to breathe or to move or to assess his room.
There’s just Franco.
He’s crawling across the bed to lever over me, filling the space above and around and everywhere with his male scent and heat. We don’t touch, for a moment; he stares down at me and I stare back, his eyes flicking with blue fire. His fists press into the comforter beside my face. He’s searching me—looking for what? I don’t know.
The same thing I’m looking for when I stare back into his glacier-blue eyes: something I know I’ll find in him, if I only look hard enough.
But do I want this?
I hate this sense of falling, the vulnerability I feel in myself as I gaze up at him, my desperation for his touch, my acquiescence to his kiss…my need for another kiss and another, when I’ve gone years without kissing anyone simply because it’s too intimate and too real and too connective—
Deep down I’m terrified of connecting with someone again and having them rip it away from me. I only barely survived that betrayal with my sanity intact—I’m stronger now, but also far more fragile. A strange dichotomy, but true.
Dammit—goddammit I feel something hot stinging my eyes, a prickling dampness blurs my sight as Franco stares down at me and there’s nowhere to hide.
His big, rough thumb brushes gently across the corner of my eye, and he lowers his face slowly down to mine, and this—this kiss is unlike the previous ones. This one is not desperate or wild.
This one is slow.
If the other kisses were manic with unbridled passion, this one is deeply, intentionally fraught with it, constructed with precision and elegance to prove what passion truly is.
I fall into his kiss effortlessly, tumbling into it without even thinking. My hands are buried in his long silky blond mane, and I feel his stubble under my palms, feel his cheeks moving as he kisses me into utter stupidity.
The prickling in my eyes is only made worse by this, and I hate how my heart twists and unfurls and reaches upward as if to soar past my slashing tongue and into his mouth and into his chest to braid and twine around his heart.
I hate, too, how the kiss doesn’t seem to end, but only to morph into a new kiss followed by a pause for breath and another kiss, how our flesh slides like silk on silk and my hands know his body, know blindly and perfectly each curve and angle and plane of him. I hate with shaking ferocity the way he can make me moan when he does that with his tongue and how he can make me arch my back and shudder when he paws hungrily at my breasts and how my legs saw at his and splay apart for his questing touch—that seeking nudge, that warm press…it’s him. Him. His beautiful thick hot hard erection sliding against the tender inner flesh of my thigh and then grazing my nether lips and spreading me apart and I whimper at the touch of him, gasp at the intrusion of him as I welcome him, tipping my hips upward without hesitation to take him within me.
God, I try to tell myself I hate hate hate the way he looks at me, understands me, feels inside me, like he’s always been there, and always will be there. It’s as if him being inside me is me finally finding my home.
His forehead brushes mine, his hair falling to either side of our faces, our lips touching but not moving, not meeting not kissing, just both of us moaning in harmonic unison at the perfection of the gliding slide of our union, the wet slippery hot tightness of him moving through me, my legs wrapped around his ass and my hands clawing at his shoulders and raking down his back so deeply he’ll have marks in the morning. I feel him pushing deep, as deep as he’ll go, and I angle my hips up and draw my knees upward to take more of him. One of his hands is under my neck, his thumb brushing at my earlobe and the corner of my jaw, and the other supports his weight.
