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We watch in silence for a few minutes while that hand works at my leg. Stroking. Kneading. The massage-like feeling is too much, and my eyes flutter. “Where did you get so good at that?”
“At what?” he asks, the picture of innocence.
“Massage. That feels good, Wilder.”
I hear myself when I say his name. I’m a tart. A trollop. There’s a nice, sweet Christmas show on TV where the main characters only hold hands at the end, and here I am, practically panting over the man at the other end of the couch because he’s touching my leg.
“Savannah, do you want a massage?”
“No,” I say a little too fast. I’d love a massage. Me and my damn awkwardness again. My face flushes, and I cover my face.
He moves his feet, and his hand comes off my leg. I miss it. He moves until he’s hovering over my torso, there’s only the blanket between us, and his arms tremble with holding himself in a plank position over my prone body. “Savannah, look at me.”
I take my hands down and find his eyes. They’re dark and hooded. “Do you want me to give you a massage?” he whispers. “It’s normal to want me to touch you. We can touch each other.” He smooths a stray hair back from my face. “If you were so inclined, you could touch any part of my body, and I’d let you.”
God damn me to hell. I put my finger under his chin and tilt it up so he’s only an inch from my mouth. “Will you kiss me?”
“If you ask nicely, I’ll give you more than a kiss. We can start with this, though.”
I sigh into his lips as he places them gently against mine. He tastes of popcorn, but I can’t taste the burnt pieces. I only taste the salt. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling him down. His weight is heavy on top of me, but I can breathe, and I feel safe and protected from the world. He’s my own personal shield, wrapping his body around mine.
Our mouths move as one, tasting and nipping at each other without urgency. This is nice. It’s nice to kiss a man on my couch on a leisurely evening. It’s nice settling into the soft cushions at my back as a hard man at my front runs his hands up and down my side.
Shivers move through me as his lips move away from my mouth, only to move to my neck and shoulders. “Can I move these tank top straps? I want to see these shoulders.”
“Yes,” I gasp.
His hands pull the straps of my tank top down one at a time. He places a light kiss on each shoulder and moves the tank top down far enough to place a lazy kiss on the top of my breast. “That looked like it needed a kiss, too.”
“It definitely did,” I whimper into his hair as his lips move down my clothed body.
At my pants, he pushes the hem of my shirt up. “This cute belly needs a kiss, too. What do you think?”
“Yes. It definitely needs a kiss.” I grip his hair and let his lips roam my entire stomach as his stubble tickles my bellybutton. The only other man who’s kissed my stomach was clean-shaven, and I tremble as I get used to the feel of Wilder’s cheek. He moves down further, and I arch into his lips. Lower. Lower.
Too low!
I pull his hair, and he jerks his head up. “No?” he asks, playing with my waistband. “I really think everything needs to be kissed right now.”
I go for honesty. “I’m not used to men kissing me there.”
“Has anyone ever kissed you there?” he asks, propping himself on his elbow but still running his fingers up and down my zipper.
“Once. I didn’t think it was the big deal other people say it is.”
“Ms. Smart, I assure you it is. If you think I’m leaving this couch without showing you how good a tongue can feel running up your wet slit, you don’t know me very well.”
“This isn’t in the contract.”
Why did I bring that up? Why is that the first thing I thought to say? Who cares about the fucking contract? A guy is begging to eat me out, and I bring up our signed agreement?
“Want me to add it in? I can add a clause about getting you off with my mouth. It’ll probably be really long, you know,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the skin above my waistband. He kisses me again, and his lips are wet now, like he’s salivating at the idea of feasting on me. “I’ll have to go on and on about running my tongue up and down that clit just right.”
He pulls my pants down an inch and runs his tongue across the top of my panties. “Holy fucking shit!” I gasp.
“Can’t I have a lick?” he begs, his voice husky. “Just one, Savannah. I’ll stop if you don’t like what I do to you.”
He drags my zipper down and looks up at me as I let him do whatever he wants. I’m powerless to stop him because my hands won’t push him away and powerless to stop the train of his tongue running along my underwear.
