Page 68 of My Favorite Bad Decision
“Fuck,” he hisses, his erection pressing between my legs. I could come just from the feel of him there, from the gentle friction of him pressing closer when we’re still separated by multiple layers of clothing.
I could come at the idea of howmuchis there, hard as steel.
He cups one breast, groaning against my lips as the pad of his thumb slides over my nipple, pinched tight beneath the top.
He pulls back just enough to watch my face as his hand slides inside the cup of the bikini. His nostrils are flared, his mouth ajar.
As if he could come just by watching me fall apart.
“This fucking bikini is as bad as the other one,” he whispers. “You torture me, Kit.”
I want to argue that he’s the one who’s tortured me, that I’ve waited ten fucking years for this, but his mouth is moving now...down, down to that breast he revealed, to the nipple pinched so tight for him.
“I’ve thought about my mouth here for so long,” he groans as his lips fasten around it and tug hard enough to make me gasp.
His mouth continues—sucking, biting, alternating between soft, sweet kisses and tugs so pleasurable they’re almost painful while his hand trails between my legs, slipping under the elastic of my bikini bottom, air hissing between his teeth when he feels me—slippery and swollen for him. My head falls back against the cabinet as he slides one thick digit inside me.
There’s an awkwardness to your first time with someone, normally…Will he think my ass is too flat? Will he think my boobs are too small? Is that scar from my appendectomy ugly? What if he’s not good? What if I’m not?
None of that exists here.
He knows everything already. If my boobs are too small and my ass is too flat, that couldn’t matter to him less. And he won’t be bad, because he’s him, and I won’t be bad either, because he wants this so much.
“I want to fuck you,” he says. “Right here on this counter. Just like this. I’m not normally this selfish. Judge me for it later.”
I respond by sliding the bikini bottoms off and widening my legs.
I might need more foreplay, under normal circumstances, but I’ve been fantasizing about this for a decade, and wanting him so much that the thoughts infiltrated my sleep, and I’m already so worked up that I’m worried I’ll come before he even gets going.
His trunks fall to the floor and he grasps himself, running the tip of his cock over me once, twice, three times, until I’m gasping and digging my nails into his back, desperate to feel the press of him as he enters me.
“Do I need?—”
“No,” I say with a frantic shake of my head. “Please.”
With a groan, he lines up to my entrance and begins pushing inside me. As wet as I am, it’s a stretch.
“Oh God,” he whispers as his head falls to my shoulder. “It’s too good, Kit.”
“More,” I beg, digging my nails into his back again.
He gives it to me. First in slow thrusts and then harder ones, with one hand braced against the counter and the other wrapped around the back of my head so that it doesn’t slam against the cabinet.
His mouth is on my neck, his sounds muffled.
Jesus.
So long. Wanted. For years.
Just like this.
His words hit in hissed fragments, and each provides a new thrill…tingling up my back, making me clench harder around him. My hair is clinging to my skin; a drop of sweat is streaking down his chest.
“Not yet, not yet,” I cry, pleading more with myself than him.
My teeth dig into my lower lip. I no longer feel anything but the way he is filling me, no longer see anything but the orgasm hurtling toward me, whether I want it to come or not.
“Oh, God, yes, just like that,” I beg, my back starting to give way as if my body can no longer hold me up.
