Page 43 of Not Your Valentine
I’m afraid I’m going to say something stupid, so instead, I set down my mostly finished hot chocolate and kiss him. It’s a little different from the kisses we’ve shared before. Deep and slow and sensual. I push him down so he’s lying on his back, and I straddle him, the blanket wrapped around us.
I kiss him like I need this more than anything, like if I don’t kiss him, I’ll fall off the face of the earth or become a bear. And as much as I’d like to hibernate, I’d prefer to remain a human, thank you very much.
As I press my body against his and slip my hands under his shirt, I can feel the warmth seeping into my body. The fire, the blanket, the hot chocolate in my stomach…and most importantly, the man beneath me. Yes, this is certainly cozy.
But his big sweater is getting in the way of what I want.
I sit up and grasp the hem of it. He nods, barely perceptible in the darkness that shrouds us, and then I whip the sweater off and throw it on the floor, followed by his T-shirt.
Now, I can see shadows on the planes of his bare chest, and I can touch to my heart’s content. When I slide my hand up his chest and remove his hair from its elastic, he groans. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to my neck, and there’s something about the slowness of the kiss, like he’s moving through molasses, that makes it even dirtier.
Especially when he follows it up with a gentle bite.
I arch my back and press my hips against his, shifting until his erection is right…there. I rock against him, and he covers his face with one hand.
“Helen, Helen,” he murmurs. He’s never said my name quite like that before, and I’m honored to hear it fall from his lips.
I’m not just a random woman. I’m me. The woman who likes hot chocolate with marshmallows, but curses if you tell her that.
“Can I undress you?” he asks. “Or will you be too cold?”
In response, I remove my sweater and place his hands on the buttons of my white shirt. He unbuttons them slowly, reverently, never taking his eyes off me.
I’m not wearing a pretty, lacy bra. It’s plain gray, but it makes my boobs look nice, and Taylor seems to approve. He runs his finger over the edge of one cup, then the other, and I try not to seem too impatient that he isn’t going faster, but it’s been a long, long time for me.
He unhooks the bra, tosses it aside, and sits up to fasten his lips to my nipple. I release a little shriek of surprise that turns into a guttural groan. His hand caresses and squeezes my other breast, and it feels so good to be touched intimately like this, by someone who seems to know exactly what he’s doing.
He flips us around so that I’m lying on my back and he’s above me, the blanket draped over him like a cape. He holds himself up on one arm and puts his other hand on the placket of my jeans. When I nod, he opens the button then slides down the zipper.
I feel like I’m on the precipice of something very, very important.
His hand slips inside my underwear. I’m already wet, but I can feel my body getting even slicker as he approaches where I need him most. He presses the heel of his hand against my clit, and I release a little squeak. He hums in approval then continues his descent, his fingers sliding through my folds.
“Oh fuck,” he says, in a tone I’ve never heard from him before.
I squirm against him, wanting more, more, more, and he eventually obliges, though the seconds before he slides a finger inside me feel like forever. I squeeze my eyes shut, barely able to stand how good it feels. He’s not even moving; he’s just holding his finger there.
“You like that?” he asks.
I nod jerkily.
He thrusts his finger in and out of me at a leisurely pace, his gaze focused on mine. “How can I make you come?”
“I’ll come like this…eventually.” Actually, maybe sooner than that. “But it’ll be faster if you go down on me.”
Toys and fingers just aren’t the same, and I miss it.
“I’ve got all the time in the world.” He flashes an infuriating smile, and that forces me to kiss him again so I can wipe that look off his face.
While our mouths are fused together, he removes his hand. I moan at the loss, but then he shimmies my jeans down to my ankles and his finger is inside me again.
Two fingers, in fact.
It’s very quiet. No traffic, no noise from the unit next door or above me. It makes me aware of how wet I am—because I can hear it so clearly.
Fuck, I need to touch him, too. In a rush, I unbuckle his belt, undo his pants, and slip my hand inside his boxers so I can feel the hard, hot length of him.
I clench around his fingers when I do. I can’t help it.
