Page 67 of The Sun and the Moon
Sydney
We tumble into the room, practically tripping over ourselves to get the door shut behind us. I am not one to overthink sexual attraction, but this feels like so much more than just a physical connection. This is a want that cuts to my core. A desire toknow. A longing to see and be seen. It’s wild to think that my dad finding new love might actually be the key to me finally having my own big feelings for someone.
Cadence grips me by the hips and whips me around to face her. Her lips smash into mine, a new hunger unleashed from her tongue. She licks the inside of my mouth and drags me bodily against her, pressing her hips into mine. Her hands are explorers, and I want to tell her they have my permission to search.
“Do whatever you want,” I say, breaking our lips apart.
My own hands can’t stay still as I push her jacket off her shoulders. It forces her to let go for a second so that it can fall to the ground behind her.
“Are you sure?” she asks, but she’s buzzing with desire, and I’m aching for more.
“Get back over here,” I order her, and she complies.
She crashes against me, using her hand to gently push my chin up so she can tuck her face into my neck. Her teeth graze the skin, sending shivers through me, and my nipples stand up, tightened with desire that races through my body right to my soul.
Her fingers touch my braid and then hook the small hair band holding it together and yank it off. My hair falls free, and she works her fingers into it, and there is something so sensual about the act that moisture springs to my eyes. Her hand runs down the length, grazing over the curve of my breast, then winding around to my waist.
Pressure pulses between my legs, hot and urgent with want.
Her hand tucks under my shirt.
“Take off my bra,” I command. Her eyes connect with mine. Her mouth is swollen with kissing, lips open like she wants to consume me. Take a bite of me. Take many. I want to touch myself to take some of the ache away, and this look on her face isn’t helping.
Her fingers find the clasp of my bra. She unhooks it. My breasts spring free, and her hand comes around, grazing the skin. She cups the mound, lightly squeezing, and then her fingertip grazes my nipple, and a shudder of desire releases from her lips.
She traces my nipple; it’s hard against her touch.
With her other hand she starts to work my sweater and bra up, and I happily comply, raising my arms overhead to help her remove my clothes. Cool air hits my skin. Her eyes devour the sight of my breasts, and her tongue slips out, wetting her lips.
She buries her face in my breasts, mouth open, tongue slipping over skin to taste my nipple. My eyes roll back in my head, and my hands burrow into her hair.
“That feels so good,” I whisper.
“God, your tits are perfect,” she says before getting a mouthful of nipple and flesh. Her tongue flicks the taut skin.
“You’re good with your tongue,” I say, nearly gasping.
“You have no idea,” she says. With that, we’re moving to the bed. She kicks off her shoes, fussing with the laces for a second. I’m glad I’m wearing booties that come off easily, because it gives me a chance to watch her move.
Her hips are trim, her torso lean, I wonder what she looks like without any clothes.
I reach over, touching the button on her jeans. She leans down, kissing me softly and leaving space for me to work the button free. Drag the zipper down. Tuck my hand into the curve of her warmth and feel just how wet she is.
“It’s been a long time for me.” She whimpers as my finger brushes over the fabric, pressing the mound of her pleasure like it’s a button.
“For what”—I kiss her—“it’s worth”—kiss—“you don’t seem out of practice at all.”
She smirks against my lips.
And then there’s a knock at the door.
She pulls back, her eyes immediately going to the bedside table.
“Goddammit,” she says, her breath a hot burst against my cheek. “The Danish festival starts in ten minutes.”
Another knock, this time followed by the sound of my dad’s voice.
“Birdie, we have Chicken here!”
