hand up and found her breast, and I pinched her nipple along with the thrust of my fingers, the suction of my mouth. I found her rhythm, and I pushed her. I got her crying out, incoherent. I got her fists beating against the mattress.
Hotter. Tighter. Harder. My finger finding the perfect spot and pressing it, and her hips were trying to come straight off the bed. I could feel her back arching now.
I got rougher.
She wailed. And she came. And then she did it again.
It lasted bloody forever. The waves rolling her, the noises pulled out of her the kind that nobody in the world would have recognized as anything else but a woman having one hell of an orgasm. Or more than one, because she was doing it again and again. Barely coming down, and going up again.
Daisy Kittredge. Whore of Babylon. Multiorgasmic. Hot as hell.
I kept going until she was panting, until she was shuddering, and then I grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed, rolled her over on top of it onto her belly, and said, “Wait.”
On the floor, in the dark, stumbling past the couch, feeling around the edges of my ottoman and finding my jeans. Finding a condom packet in the pocket, ripping it open with hands that wanted to shake, rolling it on. Blessing the optimistic nature that had seen me stuff three of them in there after my shower tonight.
And then back to the bed.
She was still there. I felt around for her, found her sweet bum raised by the pillow, and ran my hand down it. I got over her again, felt all the charge of having every bit of her underneath me, of being over her, because no matter how gentle I tried to be, I suspected I’d never be a New Age man, and whispered in her ear, “We’re going to do this a bit differently. Something else new. If you don’t want anything I do, if you want me to stop, tell me. I feel like I’ve got to have this. I’ve got to have you. But I’ll stop anyway.”
Daisy
What?
I should care what he was doing. I couldn’t. He was kissing his way down my spine, one vertebra at a time, his hand tracing its way along beside his mouth, and I was shuddering. I wasn’t a woman who couldn’t do this anymore. I was a woman who couldn’t wait.
He spent some time at the small of my back, his fingers feather-light at the base of my spine, nearly tickling, endlessly sensitive. He kept his mouth there, and his hand rubbed over the curve of my bum, his big palm taking up nearly all of it. Stroking and pinching, all the way down to my upper thigh, and back up again, awakening sensation everywhere he touched. Going slow. Taking both our time.
When his fingers probed me again, I gasped and pushed off my knees. And he slid inside me, a little at a time, his hand still underneath me, finding that button again and squeezing it, making me squirm. Another push, and he was all the way inside. Stretching me. Filling me.
It was vaginal sex, but it felt completely different. It felt amazing. He was all the way over me, surrounding me. It was completely safe, and it was absolutely not. He was too big and too strong for that. It was animal. It was primal.
He did it the same way he’d done everything else. Starting out easy. Thrusting deep, but doing it in slow motion. His hand on me, squeezing with every one of those thrusts that woke up all those nerve endings I’d never thought I had. I felt every one of them all the way to my toes, and I would have moved, would have squirmed, would have backed into him, but I couldn’t. I was pinned underneath him, unable to do anything but feel this.
I didn’t need another orgasm. I needed to lie back and relive the ones I’d already had, but I couldn’t, because I was being pushed up again anyway. I was gasping into my hands, pushing up on my elbows.
Which was when his upper body came down over me, pressing me flat again, and he started to do it harder.
It was relentless. He was so big, and he was going so deep, and I was calling out.
His hand pressing the mattress down, just above the top of my head. His harsh breathing in my ears. His scent, dark and