Page 14 of Sugar for the Mountain Man
Fuck.I won’t be done until she’s moaned my name enough times to leave her voice hoarse.
Pulling back enough to look over her shoulder, I follow her gaze to see that she’s appreciating the faux rug I have close to the fireplace. Hopefully, she doesn’t look close enough to see the singe marks left behind, a lesson learned in my first week up here.
“How about you take me there?” Blushing so pretty, she chews on her swollen bottom lip. “Looks more comfortable.”
Whatever she wants, I make a promise to myself that I’ll give it to her.
7
Maribel
I can barely focus on the texture of the rug against my bare back and the fire warming the side of my face. It’s a soft, faux fur, probably obscenely expensive. I should be luxuriating in it, cataloging the sensation like a secret I’ll remember later.
But I can’t. Not now. All I can feel is his mouth on my stomach.
My sweater is shoved up, a bunched-up thickness of wool just beneath my breasts, exposing me from the ribs down. The cool air of the room is a faint shock, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of Wesley’s mouth.
He’s… devouring me.
There’s no other word for it. His head is bowed, his blond hair a mess from my fingers, his full attention locked on the skin of my belly. He’s not kissing me, not in any gentle, romantic way. He’s licking a path from my hip bone towards my navel, the flat of his tongue teasing lower and lower with each lap. A soft, open-mouthed kiss follows, and then the sharp, perfect sting of his teeth grazing the same spot.
A gasp tears from my throat, my back arching off the rug without my permission. My hands fly to his hair, not to push him away, but to reel myself back in, my fingers twisting in the light strands.
He lets out a low, approving sound against my skin, a vibration that travels straight to my pussy. His hands squeeze my hips, his thumbs coming together to graze the button keeping my jeans on. There are only so many layers keeping my most intimate spot from him, and I want this man to peel away one at a time.
He pauses, his face buried in the soft skin of my stomach. He breathes in, a deep, shuddering inhale, as if trying to capture my very scent inside him. The groan that rumbles out of him is pure, unvarnished hunger.
“God, you smell delicious,” he rasps, the words a hot confession against my damp skin.
My mind stutters.Delicious.I spent the last few hours trying to impress him with my skills, and now he’s acting like I’m the best thing I could have possibly offered. The thought is dizzying.
Another tremble works its way through me as his fingers find the button of my jeans. He pops it open with a deft flick, humming with satisfaction. Dragging down the zipper, the rasp makes my toes curl at how close he is to touching me where I’m throbbing. Then his hands are on the waistband, and he’s peeling the denim down my thighs, baring me to the firelight and his heavy-lidded gaze.
The vulnerability is absolute. The cool air hits the damp fabric, and a rush of self-consciousness crashes over me. The words tumble out before I can stop them, a fragile confession. “It’s… It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything. A really long time.”
I expect hesitation. A flicker of doubt. Instead, a slow, devastatingly possessive smile curves his lips. The sight of it sends a fresh, liquid heat pulsing through me. He looks… thrilled.
This man is lethal when he smiles. Like he can ask for anything, and that curve will make it happen.
His hands slide back up my bare thighs, his touch firm, anchoring. He leans over me, caging me in, and his eyes hold a finality that steals the air from my lungs.
“Good,” he says, his fingers hooking into my panties next. “Then you won’t have to worry about looking anymore. You have me.”
He says it so confidently, yet I’m struggling to believe it. But then he is moving, drawing the last scrap of fabric down my legs and tossing it aside, and all capacity for thought vanishes.
He doesn’t immediately lower himself. He just… looks. His gaze is a physical weight, traveling from my flushed face, down the column of my throat, over my bared breasts, to the flushed pink between my thighs, exposed and trembling on the soft rug.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, the words rough with reverence. “Even now, I’m struggling to believe you’re real.”
Lowering himself, he settles between my thighs, his shoulders pressing them wider, and the first contact of his warm hands on the sensitive skin of my inner knees makes me jolt. He stills, his eyes finding mine, holding them captive.
“Look at me, Maribel,” he commands softly. “I want to see you.”
Then he bows his head.
The first touch of his mouth is not where I desperately need it. It’s a soft, closed-mouth kiss high on my inner thigh. Then another, an inch closer. He is mapping me with his lips, a slow, torturous pilgrimage towards my clit.
My breathing is ragged, my fingers clutching at the faux fur of the rug, my hips making a tiny, involuntary arch.
