Page 30 of Nailed (Dad Bod Contracting 3)
He pulls back from the kiss, gazing at me as he tugs the bra upward—slowly, gently, inexorably. I bite my lip and stop breathing, waiting. My breasts rise, bulge against the lace, and then begin to slip and squish out underneath. And then with a single smooth tug, Ryder rips the bra up and off, his eyes never leaving my breasts as they bounce free.
He drops the bra at our feet, his hands lifting, cupping. His breath catches as my breasts fill his hands. I’m not breathing, his hands hard and huge and scratchy with callused power, yet soft and gentle and reverent.
My hands tangle in his hair as he drops to his knees. He cradles my breasts around his face, clutching and cupping, nuzzling.
I can’t help a laugh. “Did you just die and go to heaven?”
He turns his eyes up to mine as he covers my nipple with his mouth. “Uh-huh.”
One breast, then the other, both—I caress his hair as he kisses and licks and squeezes and kneads my breasts, the attention of his hands and mouth sending an aching thrill shooting down to my core.
He lets go, then. “Actually, no. I haven’t gone to heaven just yet.”
I frown quizzically. “No?”
He sinks to sit on his heels, scraping his hands down my sides, his hooked fingers catching in the string of my thong and dragging it down and off as he settles onto his heels. His eyes stay fixed on mine as he wraps his hands around my ass, kissing my stomach, my navel, my hipbones, the fronts of my thighs.
“Now I’m getting closer to heaven,” he murmurs.
“Oh…” I breathe, lack of oxygen and the pounding heat of arousal sapping me of witty comebacks. “That’s heaven for you, huh?”
“I need a taste of heaven, I think,” he whispers, kissing the inside of my thigh.
“Oh…oh god.” I gulp, gasp for air. “Ryder…”
He kisses, nips, licks the tender silk of my inner thigh, and I automatically widen my stance, arousal and need overriding anything else and everything else. His palms skate up my body and cup my breasts again as he touches kiss after kiss to my inner thighs, each one a millimeter closer to my core.
He pauses. “Can I taste you, Laurel?”
I can’t answer in words. I’ve lost all sense, all capability of intelligibility. I’m dizzy, fraught with need, aching. Instead, I knot my fingers in his hair and guide his mouth to my core—that’s my answer.
He growls a laugh, which I feel as he nuzzles between my legs. His beard—god, it tickles, scratches. It adds to the assault of sensation as his lips brush against me, his tongue sliding over my seam. I whimper, flex my hips forward. He slides his tongue against my core, lapping into me, delving it between my lips and upward. I moan, then, and shift my legs farther apart and tighten my fingers in his hair and pull him against me, aching for the high I’m anticipating.
He doesn’t disappoint, doesn’t drag it out. No teasing, no playing. His mouth closes over me and suckles, and I whimper, whine in my throat, flex my hips forward harder, and then sag as he pulls away. His eyes go up to mine, watching my reaction as he drags a middle finger against my damp core, and then slides it into me. Just the one finger, his knuckles mashing against my lips as he delves into me, curling his finger inside me. I gasp as he finds that perfect, magical place, that touch which has my knees giving out and my thighs trembling and my breath catching, and his mouth slants against my core and his tongue flicks and circles and swipes and laps. I feel him add a finger, and now he’s gathering them forward, sliding them out, curling them back in, matching the rhythm of his touch to the lapping of his tongue, and my hips are bucking, and I’m gasping-moaning-whimpering in synch with his touch and tongue. I want it faster, but he holds his pace, and I’m clawing at his scalp and knotting my fingers hard in his hair, pulling him against me, grinding my hips wantonly against him.
“Ryder! Oh god—oh god, oh fuck…Ryder…”
His response is, finally, to speed up just a hint. Enough to make my gasps and whimpers intensify. Fingers curl and thrust, tongue lashes. I thrash and flex, crying out as a blast of ecstasy slams through me, a precursor to the orgasm. Another wave hard on the heels of the last, and then another, and I’m lost in this, wailing and screaming without thought, with utter abandon as his tongue and fingers crush me into climax. The waves of crashing, scything heat and pressure have exploded, united into a detonation of climactic intensity so powerful I’m unable to even scream, can only let my mouth hang open, lungs spasming, legs giving out, curling forward over him as he lashes me with his tongue and fucks me with his fingers in an unrelenting assault.
