Page 159 of Babies for the Big Shot
“Damn, Sara…” My voice is barely a whisper, rough and thick with want.
She leans in again, her lips brushing against mine. “I want to feel you,” she murmurs. “All of you.”
She rolls her hips, just once, and lightning strikes through my core. My eyes slam shut, my fingers digging into her, but she just smiles, confident now, drunk on power and desire and something deeper I can’t name.
She sits up straighter, pulling her top off in one fluid motion. My breath stutters at the sight of her, bare, bold, beautiful, her skin glowing in the low light, her body outlined, a living sculpture.
My hands move before I can think, sliding up her waist, over her ribs, to cup her breasts. She arches into my touch, her lips parting in a sigh that shoots straight to my gut.
“You’re perfect,” I rasp.
She doesn’t answer. She just leans down and kisses me again, deeper this time, her body grinding slowly over mine in a rhythm that’s pure torment.
I can feel how ready she is, even through the last layers of fabric between us, and my self-control is hanging by a damn thread.
“I need to touch you,” I murmur against her mouth.
She nods, wordless, breathless.
My hands slide down between us, unfastening her jeans, tugging them over her hips. She rises just enough to help, and then she’s straddling me again, her panties the only thing separating us.
I groan at the heat radiating off her, the way she moves, slow and steady, creating just the right friction.
“Take these off,” I say, tugging at the lace at her hips.
She smiles, a sultry, wicked smile, and peels them off without breaking eye contact. Then she reaches down and frees me from my jeans, her fingers brushing over me with maddening slowness.
I nearly lose it right there.
When she lowers herself again, guiding me to her, bare, wet, wanting, I grip her hips hard, anchoring myself as she sinks onto me inch by inch.
We both gasp.
She still feels unreal. Tight. Hot. Perfect. Her body was built to take me in. She was made for this, for us.
She rests there for a second, seated fully on me, her hands braced against my chest, her breath shaky. Her eyes meet mine, and what I see there steals what’s left of my sanity.
Need. Hunger. And something tender, something sacred.
Then she starts to move.
Slow at first. Torturously slow. Her hips roll in a sensual rhythm that has me cursing under my breath, barely holding back.
She rides me with a deliberate grace, her head falling back, her moans soft and ragged as she chases her own pleasure.
I let her.
I watch her.
Every arch of her back, every flick of her hips, every breathless whisper of my name is branded into me. I reach up, dragging my hands along her waist, her ribs, her breasts, worshipping her with every touch.
“Damn, Sara…” I groan. “You feel… fuck, you feel so good.”
She leans forward, bracing her hands on either side of my head, kissing me hard, her pace picking up. I meet her thrust for thrust, lifting my hips into hers, matching her rhythm until we’re both lost in it, panting, grinding, gasping.
Sweat slicks our skin, and the sound of her moans becomes a low, aching symphony that I’ll hear in my dreams.
I wrap an arm around her back, holding her flush against me. Her breasts press to my chest, her lips at my ear now as she whispers something broken and breathless.
