Page 27 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
I’m reacting on instinct. Pure, raw female need.
This man is all that I want, he’s everything, and he’s here, he’s virile and powerful and intoxicating and impossible, and he’s huge and handsome and I need him. I need this. I’ve wanted this since we kissed at his pool party.
I don’t want to want him like this; I don’t want to need him. But I do. Dammit, I do.
I’m helpless—my needs and desires, this wild, fraught sexual tension between us has me fully in its claws and I cannot escape, cannot throw off the need, the furious drive of hunger inside me to feel a man’s touch, to return that touch with my own.
His hand envelops my thigh, or most of it. I’m not breathing; don’t want to, don’t need to because he’s breathing for us both. Our lips break, the kiss is paused, and I swallow hard, blink and meet his gaze, lock eyes with him as he lets his hand wander higher, higher. Neither of us breathe, then. His forehead nudges mine; his right hand cups a breast, holding it, his thumb idly rubbing over my nipple in circles, making me lose my breath and inhale in sharp short gasps at the sizzling searing thrill.
Touch me.
God, please, touch me.
His big thick thumb reaches the apex where thigh meets hip, and pauses. My underwear covers my core, and the pad of his thumb grazes over the gusset, over my core, tracing the damp cotton, the outline of my nether lips. I want to inhale, to beg him to touch me, but all I can do is moan—and even that is more of a whispered whimper.
He pauses, his thumb resting on the cotton, over my core. I gasp again, an attempt to regain control over my breathing, an attempt to restrain myself.
It’s in vain.
Like the whole charade of not being attracted to him was in vain.
“James…” I whisper.
“Nova.” He pulls his head away. “I tried not to want you.”
“I did too.”
“Just like I’m fuckin’ tryin’ not to let this happen.” He shakes his head. “I need to touch you, Nova. I need to feel you.”
I writhe my hips forward. “I need it. I tried not to, too. I don’t want you to touch me, but I can’t help needing it. It’s so fucking stupid, but I just…god, James. This whole thing is stupid.”
He gazes at me, his eyes fiery and wild, primal brown. “So stupid. I should have more self-control than this.”
“So should I.”
“But I don’t,” he mutters.
“Neither do I.”
And then, his eyes on mine, my breast cupped in his hand still, he brings his thumb along the tendon at the utter apex of my thigh, his fingernail scraping the outer edge of my sex. I gasp. He growls, sighs. I tighten my fingers in the waist of his jeans, slide my hands together to meet at the fly; I need him. I need to touch him as much as I need him to touch me. But his touch has seared away my ability to do more than one thing at a time, and right now, all I’m capable of doing is waiting for his touch.
Which he gives to me…now.
Ohhh god. Oh god, I can’t breathe. I’m dizzy.
His thumb slides over my bare flesh, gliding over the outside of my pussy, and then down the seam. He groans, and I know he’s as affected by this as I am—as affected by touching me as I am by being touched.
His thumb slicks upward, and then, dragging through my lips, through the wetness of my desire. I don’t breathe and neither does he, as his thumb slides through my core and upward, to the center. To my center. Where I ache most. Where his touch sizzles, sears, thrills.
I whimper.
God, his thumb feels so big, so hard, pressed against my clit, and I whimper again, a breathless sound of desperate need. He’s so gentle—so utterly gentle. His touch is featherlight. Rasping in slow, meandering, teasing circles.
More, more.
I bite down on my lip and try to remember to breathe, but his touch is too much, and my lungs won’t work, don’t work.
I can’t help it. I need—I’m so needy; I need his touch, and I need to touch.
I rip open his fly. Yank the zipper apart.
Cotton bulges through the opening, and my fingers, acting with a hungry mind of their own, curl into the elastic of his underwear. Pause for a split-second, and then I can’t wait another heartbeat. I pull the elastic away and tug down, and he grunts in surprise as I push his jeans and underwear down past his butt, baring him. I look, and I gulp.
The answer is, yes, he’s as massively endowed as my dirty middle-of-the-night-fantasies suggested. As huge as filthy-minded Audra has suggested more than once.
He—is—enormous.
Thick as my wrist and more inches long than I care to guess, a fat, shiny, bulbous pink head, purple veins and so much tan flesh. A thatch of curly black hair around the base trimmed but not shaved.
