Page 86 of Late Bloomer
I want anything Opal will give.
“Let me touch you here?” Opal whispers against my jaw, her hand resting on the zipper of my jeans.
I should say no, stop this runaway train. This is a bad idea. One of the worst in human history. Because I’m maybe kind of sort of feeling an avalanche of… well,feelings, and we agreed to none of that nonsense. If a kiss undoes me like this, Opal’s fingers probably have the power to ruin me for life right about now.
“What about the rule you were worried about?” I gasp. Herrejection from the other night is still a raw blister. I’m a fool to pour salt on it.
I’ll do it anyway.
“Fuck the rules,” Opal says, hands hot and heavy on my hips. She bites my lip. “We can renegotiate them tomorrow. Can. I. Touch. You?” Each word is punctuated by a rough kiss.
“Yes.”
My voice is raw, needy, my hips emphasizing the word with an uncontrolled buck against Opal’s hand.
Opal doesn’t need more than that, fingers quick and efficient as she undoes my pants, pushing the denim low on my hips and dragging her hand across the exposed strip of skin below my T-shirt before diving beneath the elastic of my underwear.
A strangled moan rushes out of me from the heat of the contact, the soft drag of Opal’s fingers, the pure delicious torture of that first teasing circle.
“Fuck,” Opal grinds out, as if she can feel even an eighth of the pleasure building between my hips. It’s not possible. It’s sharp and insistent and addicting. Nothing has ever felt this good. But, as my gaze locks with hers—those endless blue eyes filled with heat and want and desire—I can almost believe Opal is getting off on this too.
“I’ve missed this,” she says, teeth grazing against my collarbone. I tilt my head back to give her more. “I’ve missedyou. Is that crazy? I feel crazy.”
All I can manage is a moan.
“Yeah?” she says, pulling back her face to fix me with awicked smirk. Then she’s kissing me again, lips on my skin, free hand on my breasts, cupping me and circling my nipple until I’m pressing into her, a whimper tumbling from my lips.
“Let it out, baby,” she whispers against my throat, then bites the spot.
The woman is cruel, sending me into this spiral all alone. I’m not going down without taking her with me.
I dig my hand between our tight-pressed bodies, our skin slick, my fingers slipping below the waistband of her shorts. We groan in unison as I feel the wetness already gathering in that sweet spot between her thighs. Opal speeds up her fingers, stars spotting my vision, and I retaliate, plunging two fingers into her, stroking in the way she seemed to like last time.
She apparently likes it this time too, knees buckling as she jerks forward into me. I stumble back, my thighs crashing into the edge of the table behind me. It’s a testament to how far gone I am that I don’t even bother to check on the pots of flowers that tumble off the other side.
Opal is vicious with the pleasure, building me up and up with every kiss and bite and stroke of her fingers, until I’m crying and frantic, the noise bouncing off the fogged glass of the greenhouse. She collects my desperate moans like ammo, using them to render me helpless. Useless. I willingly surrender, gasping as the first wave of an orgasm pulses through me.
With a ruthless laugh, she pulls her hand back, cutting the pleasure short. I bite back a howl of frustration so hard, I taste blood on my tongue.
“You aren’t fighting fair,” I whine against her lips, panting and desperate as my hips squirm, trying to regain her touch.
“Neither are you,” she says through gritted teeth, head falling forward as I press against her G-spot. “I can’t get you out of my head.”
I’m on sensory overload. The sweet scent of her. The wetness on my fingers. The press of her hand against my hypersensitive clit as she gives me what I need.
And, somehow, it’s still not enough.
I hook my ankle behind hers, pulling her closer. I feel the back of Opal’s hand against mine as we stroke each other, every movement small and tight, every sensation magnified and sharp.
My muscles coil with desire as I race toward the peak. I fist my free hand through Opal’s short green hair, angling her head to press a deep, dirty kiss to those obscenely full lips. Our tongues tangle, Opal swallowing my moans as I get closer and closer, every cell in my body poised to snap with sensation. I break away only to get air into my too-tight chest, feeling like I’ll pass out from the sensations.
And Opal looks at me.
She looks at me like she needs me. Like she’ll do anything for another taste of me. The rawness of that look sends me over the edge, the climax rocketing through me.
Opal follows close behind, squeezing around my fingers, her trembles echoing through me.
We stay close through the aftershocks, my head fallingback, Opal pressing her forehead against my heaving chest. I don’t ever want to move.
