Page 65 of I Almost Do

And I was dead right to be tormented by the lack of her taste in my mouth, because Clarissa Harcourt-Mellinger's flavor is decadent. She's delicate, clean, a bit salty. And that little taste is almost worse than having had none at all because now I know what I'm missing.

I move her hand back down, guide her fingers to her clit. When she begins to move them again, copying the rhythm I used last year, I breathe out long and slow. Then I wrap my free hand around my cock and work it leisurely. No hurry.

She makes a sound of annoyance. I remove my hand from hers and brush her hair off her forehead. I watch her face as she works her clit.

Her eyes are closed, a little dent is drawn between her eyebrows, and she has her bottom lip clamped between her teeth. She works and works, concentration written on her face.

"Good girl. Move your fingers down. Explore. Do you feel how swollen and wet you are?"

I reach down with one hand and gently spread the lips of her vulva. "Look, Clarissa. Look how swollen and wet and pretty you are."

She looks down, and her hips squirm up in an involuntary thrust.

"Yes. Slide the tip of your finger inside."

She does, thrusting up against her own hand, then stares up at me, demand in her eyes. She wants me to touch her. I want that too. She's water in the desert. She's the promise of salvation.

But when I look at my fingers as they separate the lips of her pussy, I see swollen knuckles, the skin torn from an act of violence. And it isn't my own hand I see against her skin. ?So I give her my words instead. "I want to lick and suck your pretty breasts. I want to trace the firework sparks of your freckles with the tips of my fingers. I want to taste your orgasm on my tongue. I want to slide my cock into your snug wet heat and ride you until we're both shaking from it."

She cries out, her lower body twisting and thrusting. But it's not an orgasm. Not yet.

I release her vulva, and the outer lips of her sex close over her fingers, playing peekaboo. "Are you ready to play with your clit again? Bring all that honey on up. Feel how it makes your finger glide over your hard little button? I can't see your sweet little hole anymore, Clarissa. I can't see your clit. You're covering it all up. But all I have to do is close my eyes, and I'll remember it for the rest of my life."

Clarissa makes a keening sound, her eyes on mine, her fingers swirling. I work my own hand faster. The muscles of my forearm are tensing and flexing. My thumb swipes over the sensitive head of my cock.

Her fingers keep moving on her clit, but her attention is on my cock now, on the way I work it. She probably thinks it looks rough. I bet she's wondering how it would feel if I fucked her like this.

There's a solid flush of heat on her chest, up her neck, and on her cheeks. Those gorgeous, ethereal eyes are fever bright.

"This is yours, sweet girl. I can't wait to fill you up. I'm going to ride you until you scream from how good it feels. I love you so fucking much."

Clarissa comes with an inarticulate wail forced through clenched teeth, her entire body seizing and her eyes on my cock.

In two more strokes, I let go, ropes of my semen gushing over my fingers and landing on her soft belly.

25

Incomplete

James

I kiss her temple in the aftermath and hold her hand until her breathing slows and the aftershocks stop. Then I move to her attached bathroom and bring back a warm cloth and a soft towel to clean her.

She pulls the comforter back over her, and I throw my sleep pants on and lie beside her on top of the covers. I've still got plenty left in me to go another round. Postcoital cuddling with both of us naked is a recipe for a disaster, but I hold her like this while I try not to think too hard about why this may have been a mistake.

Reaching out, she drags her finger across the swirling path of my latest tattoo. Her name, worked into the existing design. Hidden until you know where to look, and then it’s all you see. Every other bit of ink on my body is now just about paying homage to Clarissa. I knew she didn’t notice in the chaos last night.

“James,” she says, tears thick in her voice.

It wasn’t supposed to make her cry. “You don’t like it.”

“I love it,” she says, her voice fierce. And there’s my tigress who likes to threaten me with her wrath.

She traces a finger over one of the circular burn scars on my chest. Her voice is curious as she asks, “What caused these?”

Cigarettes. But she doesn’t need to hear about something that ugly. “Accident. Not a big deal.”

"Okay," she says, “then what’s wrong? You’re brooding.”

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