it took three attempts to get an orgasm that felt like it was the whole thing, all the way, and when that last one finally hit me, ohhh shit—it’d blow through me like an atom bomb and leave me limp and senseless for a good ten minutes.
If he made me come right now, it’d be that kind of an O.
I was a little scared of it.
Oh god, my stupid brain. Taking over.
I pushed the orgasm away, along with my need, because I was afraid of how needy and desperate I was.
His mouth seizing my left breast took over my consciousness, and I whimpered again, because Miss Righty was way more sensitive than Miss Lefty. Like, tons more. So sensitive, in fact, that even an accidental touch would make me wince, and this kind of erogenous sexual touching was nearly too much.
Nearly.
Just too much to be exactly enough.
The whimper became a whine, and then a gasp, and he was following my sounds, doing whatever drew the most desperate sound, and now he was sliding his body lower on the bed, keeping his mouth on my right breast and one hand on my left, tweaking and toying with my nipple, and his right hand was sliding teasingly over my stomach, over my hipbone.
Yes, touch me.
Make me come.
Ohh shit, oh god, he was running a finger under the string around my hip, telling me what he was doing, letting me push his hand away.
God, it felt good, doing this with Rhys. Right, and good, and perfect, and everything I’d imagined it would be and more.
I didn’t want it to stop.
That triggered a niggling thought in the back of my head, but his finger was following the string of my thong over my navel, stopping, and going back, to my hipbone. Under again, and this time his fingertip slid along the outer skin of my labia, and I shook like a leaf at that touch, my hips pushing upward. Needing more, asking for more.
Ohh god. He drew his finger over the seam, then. Teasing. I gasped, and he dragged his finger down the seam parting the lips. I sang a note of pleading, hips lifting.
He was leaning into me, on his side, while I was on my back. And my hands decided to acquire a mind of their own, and I reached for him.
I did it on purpose. I’m not going to hide behind “oh, I was so lost in need I didn’t know what I was doing.” I knew what I wanted: to feel him in my hand.
To know if the improbable girth I’d felt would be as fat and hard in my fist as it felt against my core and belly.
He was wearing tight black briefs. And god, they were brief. I felt his belly, the planes and bulges of his abs. The elastic band of his underwear, at his hipbone. As he’d done, I teased a finger under the elastic and ran it over toward the middle. And met…him. Springy and warm and soft, yet firm. I tugged down, and took his cock into my fist.
And yeah, oh yeah, it was everything I’d felt and more. So…fucking…thick. Long, too. God, what a dick. I caressed it, marveling.
He groaned. “Ohh Jesus, Torie. You can’t do that too much,” he breathed against my breast. “Been so worked up for so long I’ll go in a second if you don’t stop.”
“Don’t wanna,” I gasped. “Love how you feel.”
He flexed his hips. “Gonna pop off like I’m fuckin’ fourteen again.”
“Don’t care.” I grabbed his wrist and guided his hand closer to my core. “More of this, please.”
He rumbled a laugh and delved his finger into me.
I reached up, clasped the back of his head and drew him down to my breasts. “More of this, too.”
He laughed, but it was a wild, nervous, tense laugh, because I was caressing him, and I felt him flex his abs, pull his belly in as I slid my fist around him, up the glorious length of him, fingers barely able to circle the huge thickness of his shaft. I focused on feeling him in my hand—both hands, and still there was so much cock left to caress. Ridges of veins, closely trimmed thatch of dark hair, the grooved ring around the top where my fingers fit perfectly. I rubbed my thumb over the tiny hole in the top, exploring the broad roundness of the head. Smearing his seeping pre-cum along the head.