“Baby,” I gasped. “I’m ready.”
His hand slid in.
My neck arched.
Oh wow.
Wow.
His finger hit me right at the perfect spot and my h*ps bucked violently.
I liked that.
A lot.
His finger retreated.
No!
“Jesus, I hurt you, Sylvie?”
“No,” I panted, my hands moving on him, feverish, communicating, then I gave it to him verbally. “Please,” I whispered.
Apparently he needed no further encouragement. I knew this because his hand slid back in and his finger went right where I needed it.
My mouth opened on a silent moan.
Yes, this was good.
Now, it was perfect.
His finger moved on that sweet spot between my legs as his mouth moved on my neck, his tongue traced my jaw. Then, just as it built so high it crashed over, obliterating me with its sheer beauty, his mouth took mine and his tongue slid inside.
Yes.
Utterly.
Perfect.
As it slowly receded, I felt Creed’s finger move tenderly away then his hands went to the string ties on the sides of my bikini. He pulled them and I felt the material loosen around my hips.
“Gotta have you, baby,” he murmured against my mouth, his hand doing something at the back of his jeans.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“I’ll go slow. Be gentle,” he promised.
“Okay,” I repeated.
“It may hurt, beautiful,” he warned. “I’ll try to –”
My hands slid up his back into his hair and I curled them around the back of his head as I lifted mine, my lips to his and I urged, “Creed, baby, it’s okay. I want it. I’ve been waiting forever for you to make me really your Sylvie. So, please, please make me your Sylvie.”
I heard, just as I felt, his deep groan.
Yes.
Yes.