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I don’t protest when his hands slip under my dress, and pull on the waistband of my tights. They’re cheap, and flimsy, and without intention he rips them right down the center. I see the flash of surprise, maybe even an apology, in his eyes before he takes advantage of it. Fingers tear further and brush against the inside of my thighs. He’s making slow work of traveling to the place I need him the most. I let out a small whimper in anticipation, and he captures it with his mouth.
When his thumb presses through the fabric of my underwear and up my slit, I can’t help the gasp that flies out of me.
I know he's feeling how soaked my underwear is.
“Was it like this when you imagined me in your book?”
My eyes widen, but he doesn’t notice as his kisses trail down my neck and across my collar bone.
I had written a scene where Cam pulls Brenda into the bathroom at a college party, because he couldn’t last a second longer without touching her. And Ihaddaydreamed about Miles not wanting to go a second without touchingmewhile I wrote it.
I’m surprised he read that far.
His fingertips dip under the edge of the fabric and pulls it to the side. The second he has access, he presses his thumb to me and begins to rub in perfectly pressured circles. I somehow manage to nod despite my head spinning.
I did picture this, his hands and mouth on me, our shared breaths as he tore me apart using nothing else. Except this is a million times better than I imagined, better than anything I could've written about a character I was pretendingwasn'thim.
I’m nothing more than a panting mess. Our kiss has gotten sloppier, my ability to successfully multitask being long gone. This is the first time it’s actually happened, feeling so consumed by what someone is doing with their hands that I can’t even kiss them properly. I was working from pure imagination when I wrote it.
He’s going to destroy me before I even lay eyes on his dick.
I move my messy kisses down his jaw, to his neck, nipping at him and savoring the taste of his skin. I start to move against his hand, encouraging him enough that he slips a finger inside of me. It only makes me push my hips faster, begging for more.
The only sounds filling the small space are the heavy breaths and moans that fly out of me, and his fingers moving through my wetness. I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t so consumed by the way he feels.
When he slips another finger in, and curves them to hit a certain spot, I know I'm done for.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers before nipping at my earlobe.
I want to say the words right back, because that’s what he is. His curly hair has fallen forward, and his cheeks are just as flushed as I’m sure mine are. I wish I could take a picture, and forever remember the awe written on his face. The determination.
More curses fly past his lips when he feels my core tighten around him, seemingly just as lost in this as I am. His thumb pushes down even harder, moving back and forth on my bundle of nerves and setting me off.
He muffles the scream that flies out of me with his mouth, like it’s something he wants to keep for himself. I’m more than okay with that, I want to give him every orgasm if this is how they’ll go.
My body sags back against the mirror as I catch my breath. I can still feel how hard he is against my thigh.
He lazily kisses my face, my neck, my chest. The neckline of this sweater is so stretched out, and I don’t care. I’d ruin a hundred sweaters for him.
“Please let me do that a hundred more times,” he pleads. “I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of the sounds you make.”
If my core wasn’t still throbbing, it would have started up again at those words.
“I’ll be so disappointed if you don’t,” I admit, still panting.
His relief is palpable as he presses a kiss to my forehead.
“We can do this, A. I promise. Whatever you need, I’ll do it.”
I believe him. And I decide I’m going to let him, although I'm not any less scared of what the future holds.
32
Miles
“Boy!” Patty yells, causing me to jump back from the windowsill. I was so lost in thought that I overwatered her plant, spilling water down the wall and onto the carpet.
“Shit, Pat. I’m sorry.” I waste no time grabbing a towel from the kitchen to soak it up. The plant is doomed if I don’t do something about that as well, so I bring it back to the sink with me. The old woman just watches me as I go, clearly amused by my flustered state. To be fair, she’s had the plant a lot longer than I’ve been around. I can’t be the reason it dies.
