Page 103 of The Home Grown
His hand slides down the outside of my thigh, leaving a trail of warmth. And there’s the tingle. And the way my skin ignites and the desperation I’m feeling for him to go lower. For him to touch me.
“What do you need, sweetheart?” he growls, shifting his position to plant lazy kisses against my neck. Right on a spot I didn’t know I had.
“I want you to—” A pressure on my nipple through the fabric of my bra steals the words from me.
“Is this what you need?” he says, right into my ear, reading my mind. “Do you need me to touch you?”
I shiver as his fingers—oh my God, his fingers—trace down my stomach, coming to a stop on the waistband of my trousers.
The anticipation. His breath in my ear before his lips trail over my skin. All he needs to do is flick open the clasp and slide his hand down and?—
“Oh, God,” I gasp.
It’s like he’s reading my mind. In a single motion, his hand is inside my trousers—over my underwear—almost tickling my skin as his hand stops on my pussy. Cupping me before stroking, once, twice, then he comes into contact with my clit. All through the thin fabric.
“Becauseyou know—” he whispers, peppering kisses on my neck. “—as your husband, it’s my job to take care of you. All of you.”
A breathy groan escapes me, and I have no idea what to say because I am quaking. All I can do is nod and mumble something in agreement. Because yes. Yes, this is what I want.
“Mike—”
“I’ll warn you, sweetheart. It’s been a while since I’ve touched myself and you’ve got me really fucking hot.”
Oh, God. Why doesthatturn me on too? Knowing that I’ve got him excited. And he can no doubt feel how wet I am ifIcan feel how wet I am.
Before I can stop myself, I’m running my hands over his chest, hard pecs, and coarse hair that has me melting beneath him.
Masculine. That’s what it is. That’s whatheis. Masculine and arousing, and then he adjusts himself so I can feelhimagainst my leg. Hard. Imposing. Definitelynothow he described it to me—but I already knew that. I saw the outline.
And now I want to touch it. I want to touchhim.
I move my hands over his abs next, then I reach his naval, brushing my fingers over his skin, the heat from his breath tickling my cheek before he kisses me again, tenderly trailing kisses from my lips down to my throat.
I hold my breath, nervous, but I lower my hands, sliding them underneath the waistband of his sweatpants.
He’s commando.
“Oh, God,” I say, then I grip him in my fist.
He grumbles, low and throaty, and it sends a wave of excitement through my bones. I move my hand in lazy strokes up and down his shaft. Thick. Heavy. Hard in my hands.
Perfect.
A word I never thought I’d be using to describe a penis, let alone the one attached to Michael Betts, but here I am, revelling in every single inch of him. Desperate for more.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he says.
And my brain adds to the equation, because now all I can think about is him being inside me as I pump my hand a little faster.
He sucks in a breath and tugs my hands away.
“Let me—get you there first,” he says. And his face is in my neck, kissing and nibbling and I know, it won’t take him long at all. I’m like a rocket, ready to launch.
The rest of our clothes disappear in haste. Frantic pulling and tugging until we’re both naked. Lying on his sofa with the blanket wrapped around us. But I don’t care. I haven’t even asked if his roommate is likely to come home. In fact, he could be watching us—creepy, yeah, but I’m so immersed, I don’t?—
“Oh, God,” I say. A hot breath hits my left nipple, then a second later the pressure of his tongue, flicking and teasing, has me clamping my fingers into his hair.
He snickers. “Bettsy’s fine, if you’re wanting to give me a nickname,” he says, “but I guess God will do?—”
