Page 50 of For a Goode Time Call…
One hand gliding his length, root to tip, in a smooth slow rhythm, unhurried, I used my other hand to cup his heavy sac, massaging. Filling my hand with their soft, delicate weight.
“I want…” He lifted his hips. Feeling the surge of need, I assumed. Rising, filling him. I wanted to draw it out as long as possible, but I also wanted to see him let go, watch him explode, know I brought him the first true pleasure he’d felt in who knew how long. “I don’t fuckin’ know, Cass. Just you.”
I saw a million things on his face. “I see you, Ink. I see you feeling more than you’re saying.” I met his eyes. “Say it all. Tell me what you want. Tell me you want it. Ask me for it.” I grinned, a sultry smile of desire. “Or better yet, show me. Take it.”
“Scared to want too much,” he bit out.
“Scared that you’ll want something I won’t want to give?”
He nodded.
“Won’t happen.” I nipped at his earlobe. “Try me.”
“Shit, Cass.”
I laughed. “Well, there’s one thing I’d say won’t ask for.” I giggled, squeezing him. “I won’t put this thing in my ass. But anything else…?”
He rumbled, and I wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or something else.
“Won’t ask for that. Wouldn’t anyway.”
He looked down at my hand, still wrapped around his immense, straining erection. At my face. His eyes flicked down to my chest. To the knot in my shirt.
He reached up, hesitantly. Unknotted the hem of the shirt with one hand. Gauged my reaction—I let go of him and lifted my arms over my head, and he drew the shirt off. I sat next to him in the grass, dressed now in yoga pants and a sports bra. He was naked, his shorts down around his ankles. He kicked them off and toed them aside. Sat up. Faced me. Even sitting, he still towered over me. His palm touched my cheek, and he brushed my cheekbone with a thumb. Ran that same thumb over my lips, the pad rough and broad. I met his eyes, and the fierce hunger I saw blazing there, just for a moment. It stunned me with its raw ferocity.
But, all too soon, habit had him shuttering it.
I took his face in both hands. Leaned close. “Don’t hide that from me, Ink. Don’t. That’s what I want.”
He furrowed his brow. “Hard to let it out.”
I smiled. “I’m patient. Just know that I want it. I want to see it. Feel it. Experience it.”
“Trying.”
With another hesitant glance at my eyes, he grazed his fingertips over my ribs, up my spine. Caught against the strap of my sports bra, I just waited. He tugged it up, ran his fingers around the strap to the front, and pulled up. My breasts lifted, caught in the tight garment, and then bounced free, and his eyes fixed on them.
“Want to know something?” I whispered.
He, with effort, moved his eyes to mine. “What?”
“Never done anything like this outside.”
“Me either.” He looked again at my breasts, and then at my eyes. “Goddamn, you’re beautiful, Cassandra.”
My heart swelled—I wish I knew how to communicate how badly I needed to hear that. Needed to feel that. “You look at me like you’ve never seen a naked woman before.”
He shrugged. “Looking at you, it feels like I never have.” He moved closer, and his lips touched mine.
It was a delicate, questing dance of lips soaring against lips, tongues finding each other, a delving from first kiss to lost in bliss. I whimpered at his kiss, because, god, his lips were soft, strong. He kissed as if he’d never kissed before, as if I would stop wanting to kiss him if he allowed me a single moment to even think of anything but his kiss.
I drowned in his mouth, kissed him until I was dizzy and gasped for breath, and then we touched lips and tasted tongues, and his eyes found mine, a brief moment, and then another small kiss, another. Short, soft, wet, inaccurate, lips missing, tongues not quite finding each other, the kiss all the more intense moment by moment. A dozen tiny kisses, each one a rifle bullet straight to my heart. Straight to my core, where I ached to be touched, ached for his fingers, his tongue, his arousal.
I whimpered into the kiss and pressed my chest against his, leaned into him, felt his body against mine as a massive, immovable wall of muscle and man. He curled his hand around the back of my head and kissed me harder, and I knotted my fingers in his hair, gasping against his lips as his kiss sent me into a paroxysm of need. I clutched at his erection, found it waiting for me as hard as a rock, and tall and thick and straight. I plunged my fist around him. Let go of his hair and used both hands. Pressed against his chest and he lay back. I went with him, leaned over him, one hand now braced on his chest to support my weight, the other now greedily stroking him.
I kissed him, and kissed him. Now it was my turn to kiss his fierce gentle mouth as if I might die if I didn’t kiss him again, and again, and harder, and more intensely. I kissed him with all the ferocity I felt in my soul and in my body, and I caressed his erection with unhurried rhythm, slowly, making sure he felt and remembered forever each individual stroke of my fingers around him.
His hand settled on my thigh, just below my butt. I pressed my core against his hip, angled against him. Urging. Giving him tacit permission to touch me more. His hand, huge and powerful, was utterly gentle as he cupped my ass, one side only, for a moment. Squeezed. Gathered the other side in his hand, massaged. Explored each taut round globe, moaning and murmuring—whether from my fist slowly plunging up and down his erection or at the feel of my ass, I wasn’t sure, and didn’t care, because that moan, those murmurs, wordless and distinctly rapturous, was like a drug. I needed more. The rumble of his voice, the bass vibrations against my chest, the tense need in each sound…
