Page 33 of Skyn
How to tell him that his soiled jacket, his hand walking up my thigh, and him pulling that silk dress over my face are the only things running through my mind at any given point in the day I seriously have had no other thoughts.
My tiny skirt pools around my hips. My knees press on either side of him. I look up to see if we’re still alone in this huge private room. This is madness, in a restaurant with the smell of roasted lamb thick in the air, but none of it matters. The chair creaks beneath us, but I barely notice as my hips roll forward. I grind down, and the friction is maddening—just enough to make him gasp against my mouth.
His gaze locks with mine, so raw and pleading. “I just need more of this…supernaturalsoftness.”
I feel him hard and hot beneath me, and a low moan slips from my lips. His mouth leaves mine only to press hot, urgent kisses down my neck, each one more desperate than the last.
I should know something is wrong by now, but I don’t. I’m too wound up in the chaos and power of his mouth on me. But the earnestness, the vulnerability… He iswayoff his dampeners. I know it’s dangerous, but I push my hips toward him again anyway. No one has ever made me feel so beautiful. When he calls me a diamond, I believe it. He bites my shoulder, grinding into me. I’m going to come if I have five more minutes of this type ofscientific inquiry.
“How you melt into me…I’ve never felt anything like this.” He gasps. His eyes are as wide as plates.
I’m rattled too—by him, by the intensity of my response, like I just stepped off a cliff and there’s no ground beneath me.
Ben’s breathing is ragged now, hot against my neck, his hands fisting the fabric of my dress. He’s shaking beneath me, the thick ridge of his hardness pulses against me impatiently, as his body rocks somewhere between control and abandon. He runs his hand over the bite mark on my shoulder with one hand, cupping my ass and grinding my wet center into him with the other.
Then, without a word, he wraps both hands around my thighs, grips the curve of my ass like he owns it, and lifts me onto the table. He settles me on the edge, and the plates rattle beneath me.
I am sitting on a huge plate with my thighs spread open in front of his hungry eyes. A smear of sauce kisses the back of my leg. I should be mortified.I am…not.
Ben doesn’t look away. Only nudges me open wider with his palms.
Cool air hits the wet heat between my legs. He finds the edge of my panties and shifts them aside with greedy anticipation.
My chest is burning.
He looks up at me, pupils blown, voice low, and starting to slur. “I told you I wanted to taste everything.”
His mouth finds me like he’s been starved.
The first press of his wet tongue over my clit sends a jolt through my spine, electric and deep, like my body was waiting for this without telling me. Each flick, each stroke, is calibrated for maximum unraveling.
I grip the edge of the table, breath shattering into pieces. Plates crash to the floor.
It’s hot, slick, devouring.
The flat drags of his tongue are slow, wet velvet against lightning, and my hips jerk like they’ve been pulled by a string knotted deep inside me.
I can’t breathe.
I am this man’s dessert.
The sounds that come out of me are messy, involuntary—choked whimpers, swallowed moans. He doesn’t slow down. He presses in deeper, mouth locked to me, tongue moving in tight, maddening circles that make my vision blur.
My thighs tremble, clamping around his head on instinct, and he only groans into me like that’s encouragement. The vibration buzzes straight through my core. I’m dripping, shaking, unraveling by the second, and when he slides his fat tongue inside me—deep, curling—my body arches off the plate.
I think I cry out. I think I call his name.
I think I come apart.
It’s only when I feel him trembling, truly trembling, that I realize how far this has gone.
“Ben,” I say quietly, but he doesn’t seem to hear me, too absorbed in the overwhelming sensation of my wetness sliding over his tongue, too lost in whatever is happening inside his head.
I try again, louder this time. “Ben, are you okay?”
He doesn’t answer, just grips my thighs tighter. His face now flushes a deep, unsettling purplish red that creeps up from his neck to his temples. The server walks in and walks right back out.
He pulls back, and I feel a bite, this time a littletoohard, on my inner thigh.
