Page 26 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
My palms angle around his sides, under his armpits, and I cup his chest, feel the thick mat of hair and the hardness of his stomach and then the rolling mountains of his shoulders, tensing as he shifts. The kiss—god, the kiss; it breaks, a momentary lapse where lips desperately part from lips, and his shirt vanishes and so does mine.
Where does his shirt go? Where is mine?
Am I wearing a bra? I don’t know. Was I? I’m not now. His hands are wild on my skin, caressing in swift circles over my back and shoulders, and I arch my spine even as I pull away to put space between our torsos to make room for his hands.
I gasp, and the sharp inhalation breaks the kiss again. Our eyes meet. We’re both topless. I’m sitting on the counter, and he’s wedged between my thighs. His zipper strains to contain his erection. My breasts are bare, swaying with my breath, hanging heavily between us, my nipples puckered and hard, gooseflesh rippling across my skin. His eyes fix on mine for an instant, and then slide down. I catch my lower lip in my teeth and suck in a breath, because no man has seen me naked for…so long.
His eyes widen, and his jaw falls open. “Jesus, Nova.”
I wriggle. “What?”
“You. You’re…you’re fucking…” He shakes his head, and sucks in a breath as if to do so is difficult.
“What, James?” I need to know what he thinks I am.
“Incredible.”
My breath catches. “It’s just because I’ve got big—”
He gathers my hands in his, presses my palms over my chest, hiding me from his view, and his eyes latch onto mine. “No, Nova.” His hands feather into my loose red hair, a thumb grazing my cheek. “You’re so fucking beautiful it makes my head spin. You—who you are. Your face, your hair, your…just you, Nova.”
I drop my hands to rest them on his waist. “So it has nothing to do with these?” I ask, shaking my chest to make my breasts jiggle.
He can’t help but look, and I can’t help but notice the way his hips flex forward, as if trying in vain to alleviate the mounting pressure behind his zipper.
He doesn’t answer. Just stares, takes in the sight of me topless, my fair skin pinking as I blush under his frank, hungry eyes, my nipples hardening to diamond points, aching, begging.
Begging for what he is teasing me with—his touch, his hands grazing down out of my hair, over my shoulders, to my thighs, resting on my legs over my shorts, halfway between the bare skin near my knee and the crease of my hips. I hook my fingers in the waist of his jeans, the denim tight against his skin. He glances at me, and then back at my breasts.
I want him to touch me. I need his hands on me—shit, I need his mouth on me. Everything.
My hair drapes into my eyes, and I see him through a curtain of red; his hands cover my breasts, and then I gasp, a loud expression of relief and pleasure as his hot hard hands cup over my breasts, his palms rough yet gentle against my rock-hard, hypersensitive nipples. I tilt my head back and close my eyes and moan at the feel of his powerful hands caressing me, now lifting them and hefting their weight, letting them rest in his palms, thumbs grazing over my nipples, flicking them. God, his touch is like heaven. It’s been so, so long since I’ve been touched like this.
James touches me like he’s never touched a woman before—which I know isn’t true, obviously, but the almost-clumsy need in the way he caresses and cups and lifts my breasts is so eager, so needy. I fucking love it.
His left hand drops to my thigh. He leans forward, and I have a split-second warning before his mouth slants across mine and his tongue slashes over my lips, licking them, probing between them and I part my lips for him and spear my tongue into his mouth and gasp as his right hand continues to eagerly, hungrily caress my breasts, right side and then the left in turn, paying equal attention. His left hand, though—ohhh, god. He rests it at first on my knee. My shorts are modest enough when I’m standing up, hanging just above mid-thigh. But when I sit down they hike up, leaving most of my thigh bare. And now—now he has my flesh under his hand, and he wants more. I’m fully aware of each centimeter of movement, his palm sliding upward, toward my hip. Then his fingertips are daring under the hem of my shorts, and I ache, ache, ache. My thighs are spread wide to accommodate him, to allow his huge body between them. My core is damp. His fingers slide upward. I kiss him, taste his tongue and lips, arch my back to press my breasts into his hand, and wait for his fingers to slide higher and higher yet up under my shorts.
