Breathe Me - C.R. Jane Page 0,86

lights.

Logan Cooper. An angel that I desperately want to defile. Over six feet of sex, he’s a fire I'm desperate to explode inside me. My breath constricts.

My heart races, and my skin feels alive as he once again trails his tongue down my neck. Except this time, he doesn't stop, not until he pulls my panties off of me, he pushes my knees apart and bends down to the floor in front of me.

He smiles, and it fucking lights up my soul. He's like sunshine, and I crave him with every bone in my body. "Still good?" he asks hoarsely, and all I can do is nod.

He buries his head between my thighs, and I scream as he swipes his tongue along my folds and around my clit. His hands massage up and down my calves as he continues to work me, teasing me to the edge of orgasm, taunting me until the world begins to tilt and spin. He eats me like he's starving. I grip his hair as his head bobs between my thighs, his tongue slipping through my wet folds to sink into my center, only to retreat and do it again.

And again.

It feels so good.

So, so good.

He groans, and the long vibration tickles my clit. “Fucking, hell,” he murmurs. “How do you taste this good?”

It’s not just his voice or the sight of him in a position I’ve imagined a hundred lonely nights when it's been just me and my vibrator that has me on the brink of orgasm.

It’s not only his open-mouthed kisses or the way he teases my clit.

It’s the sounds that accompany his feast.

My groan, his growl, the wet suction of his lips. His finger when it slips into my channel—all of this brings me to the brink. I squirm to get closer, and then wiggle away from the pleasure dragging down my spine, to escape the brush of his whiskers against my thighs. It’s too much and not enough. “Please,” I beg.

He stops.

He fucking stops, and he stands and scoots me back on the bed. He studies me as he strokes himself. I can see the gleam of pre-cum already on his cock, and I want it on me.

In me.

I want him to take me. I'm ready to fall, wherever that leads.

He lowers himself over me and settles between my thighs, and I watch as his pupils paint his sky blue eyes almost black just before he kisses me.

And then he's pushing into me hard and fast.

I gasp at his size. It would be a lot for any girl, but the fact that I've been abstaining for quite some time, makes it feel especially…full.

He pauses for a moment, staying buried in me. His hips stay still through his constant touch, his petting and pinching of my breasts, my clit, his rubbing of me into a squirming frenzy beneath him.

The entire time his mouth is on mine or whispering things that make it easy to pretend that he's loving me with his body. I pretend that this means everything I want it to mean. Whether it does or doesn't, I don't know.

But as it happens, I pretend that I do know. I pretend that I know exactly what he means with each thrust into me. I pretend as he tastes me everywhere.

He doesn't know, but every pass of his lips makes more of me belong to him.

I’m addicted to the pace of his hips as they pull back and slide forward.

I'm addicted to the way that I’m stretched and full in a way I've only dreamed about over the last ten years.

I'm addicted to him.

In, out, he watches me—my eyes, my lips. He takes in every reaction, every breath and moan. I hold his cheek, worshiping his face with my gaze as he picks up the pace.

“He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking,” he murmurs.

Leo Tolstoy.

He quotes fucking Anna Karenina, one of my all-time favorite books, as my lips part in a silent O when I can’t breathe, and every muscle in my body stretches thin.

All the while, he watches. Rising, straightening his arms beside me, his muscles flex beneath my roaming fingers, and he pounds into me. I scrape my nails against his shoulders and dig into hard muscle. The first tremor is a shock, pushing me over the edge and into a spasm. I clench around his cock, but he moves through