Page 112 of Jaded

His mouth slams against mine, and we’re kissing again, pressing closer, closer, chest to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. So he must notice my cock’s rock hard against him.

It’s not enough. I snake my arms around his waist, pull him even closer.

My fingers dance beneath the hem of his shirt, seeking bare skin. He moans as my hands slide up his back, fingers caressing the soft curves of his spine, the ink I know covers the bone.

I want to study it, with my fingers, my eyes. My tongue. Want to explore every inch of him with all my senses—touch him and taste him, breathe in his soft perfume, rock against him to feel the friction of his body.

My fingers crawl higher, lifting his shirt with them, lifting, lifting, a question more than a demand because I’m still surprised he’s letting me do this, has let it get this far.

I’m demi, his gentle voice reminds me, but his hardened cock presses into the crease of my leg, and he’s the one to grip the collar of his shirt and tug it the rest of the way up. It flutters to the floor in a billow of soft white cloth. And my eyes are on him. On that dark, bare skin I’ve wanted to study for so long.

Now, I study.

With my hands and eyes, I study him. I trail my fingers over the muscles of his stomach, chest, shoulders, arms. My eyes follow in their wake to drink in every curve and joint, to look as I haven’t allowed myself to look. My hands drop back to his hips to rock him against me as I press my lips against the curve of neck and trapezius. Along the crest of his shoulder.

He throws his head back to allow me unrestricted access. A strangled little moan precedes his next words. “My turn.”

His fingers slide over my waist, tangle in the bottom of my shirt, and he lifts. My shirt joins his on the floor, and then it’s him studying me.

His eyes skate down my bare skin, hot enough to be a physical caress as he examines me, as his fingers follow his eyes slowly back up my torso. They crawl up my stomach, sending heat flaring in their wake. My cock bulges my jeans, fully hard now, but he doesn’t touch, doesn’t look.

He leans back in to kiss me, and we’re half naked, pressed skin to skin, just like I’ve wanted from him for weeks now, since that first night at the bar, before I had any idea I wanted it.

“What now?” he whispers against my neck. He pins his hips to mine, pressing me into the wall. “What do you want?”

“You’re the expert here.” I nip at his ear. “You lead the way this time.”

“That’s a new one for me.” His mouth skims across my collarbone. “Me being the experienced one. At least you won’t know if I’m screwing up, right?”

I laugh, a breathy whisper of air as he presses a kiss to the hollow between my collarbones. “I highly doubt you could do anything I wouldn’t like.”

“You have to tell me if I do, okay?” His lips drop. Lower. Lower. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want. You tell me, okay?”

“Deal.” My words are throaty, nearly lost to the desire and heat coursing through my body. “If I were just another guy, what would you do?”

“If you were just another guy? Nothing.” He laughs, right before his mouth closes over my nipple, and his tongue flicks over it. The moan that claws its way from my throat is nothing short of carnal, almost feral.

“You know what I mean,” I choke around my own labored breaths.

“If I could do anything right now,” his lips drift a little lower. “I’d blow you. While I jerk off.”

“Oh, God.” A physical ache of desire accompanies the thought: him on his knees, his mouth on me, his hand on himself.

His lips skim lower. Down my pec to the top of my stomach. My breath hitches, half moan, half growl, and my hips twitch slightly forward, seeking touch, seeking his body, his heat, seeking him.

“Do you want me to blow you, Nat?” Olli murmurs against my abdomen as he trails savage kisses between the lines of muscles.

“Yes,” I say, and I fucking mean it. Right now, there’s nothing I want more than that, than him. Him and me. “Yes, I want that.”

“Good.” He drops to his knees on the floor in front of me.

“Fuck.” My breaths are shallow, labored, my cock pressing so hard against my zipper it’s physically painful, and he lays a kiss against my stomach, right above the button of my jeans.

“You want me to turn off the light?” he asks. “Keep things a little more vague?”

“What? No.” I manage those words clearly. “Hell no. I want to watch.”

“Everything?” His fingers trail over the button of my jeans, and suddenly they’re open, and the zipper’s undone, and there’s just a thin layer of cloth between my bare skin and his waiting mouth. Those lips press just below the waistband of my underwear. “Even me?”

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