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“Are you just going to stand there and stare at me?”
“Baby, I’m just deciding what I want to taste first.” My eyes flick to the door. “That thing have a lock on it?”
She nods. “Their room is on the other side of the house. Besides, we won’t be disturbed, thanks to red wine and Ambien. Self-administered, before you ask.”
I give a rough laugh. She looks as desperate for tonight as I am. “Good,” I grunt as I tug on the belt of her robe. And, good Lord, the sight of her takes my breath away.
What she’s wearing under the robe hardly constitutes a nightdress. Not quite white and not quite pink, sheer lace cups her breasts before turning to something silky that skims her thighs. I’ve never seen anything so fine. And I’ve never wanted to strip a girl out of her things so quick.
“Pretty.” My hand trembles as I skim a finger under the lace at her shoulder. Her skin is so damn soft. She inhales a tiny breath as my knuckle skims over the curve of her breast.
“I’m shaking,” she whispers.
“It’s the wanting.” I tug at the ribbon between her breasts.
“My insides feel so hollow.”
“If you keep looking at me like that, they won’t be for long.” Satin, silk, whatever, shimmers with her tiny laugh. “I meant what I said, Clara. I’m gonna take my time with you, but I’m not sure the wanting will ever go away.” I slide the lace from her shoulders, and her nightdress whispers to the floor.
“Fuck.” I am a dumb fuck. I want to wax lyrical, to sing her praises. She deserves sonnets written about the silk of her skin, the blue of her eyes, and the lush fullness of her tits. Yet fuck is all I can come up with.
“Cat got your tongue?”
I shake my head. Not in answer, but to drag myself from this trance as she stands before me in nothing but a pair of matching tiny panties.
Jesus, this dream is about to turn real.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” Pulling her to me, I lower my mouth to hers. Kissing. So much kissing. Touching. Brushing. My hands on her breast, her ass, as hers work under my T-shirt.
“I want to see you,” she whispers feverishly. “I want to touch you.”
“We’ve got all night,” I whisper, backing her up against the nearest surface, my thoughts and actions not yet together enough to trust myself with a bed.
The surface is a chair, it turns out, pink and velvet and girly, just like her whole room. A room that smells of soap and lotion and perfume.
I drop to my haunches, ignoring her frustrated mewl. Folding my hands around her hips, I press my face to that satin scrap between her legs. Her soft moan is seriously satisfying as I inhale lungfuls of her. She smells so fucking good.
“I’m gonna taste you, Clara. You okay with that?” I swallow thickly, my mouth watering. I haven’t tasted her from the source yet. Just from my fingers, and I’m so ready for this. But as my gaze crawls up her heavenly body, what I see is consternation. “You don’t like it when guys go down on you?” My heart plummets. I’ve been dreaming about this for weeks. I’m near fucking delirious with the thoughts of it.
“I’ve never . . .” Her cheeks color, her expression uncomfortable. “Guys don’t . . .”
“Fucking idiots,” I growl, and without waiting for clarification, I put my mouth back to the center of her femininity, that heavenly triangle between her legs. I give a long lick up and over the silk. “You like that?”
Oh, yeah, she likes that. So I begin to make out with her pussy, slowly, thoroughly. Lots of appreciative groans and eye contact as I work my tongue between her lips over the fabric.
“Oh, God.” Her hand finds my head, and she looks like she doesn’t know whether she wants to pull me deeper or push me away. “I feel like I’m burning.”
I tighten my hands on her hips. The steadiness of her knees not looking so good as I breathe her in over the damp fabric. “You smell so good,” I whisper, sliding my finger under the elastic. Her body begins to move with my fingers, one, then two, my tongue circling that tight bundle of nerves for all I’m worth.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. I don’t know . . .”
“I’d better continue,” I say, pressing my smile into her skin. “Just to be sure.”
“Troy, I don’t think I can come like this.” She whimpers, her thighs beginning to tremble.
I look up, my gaze meeting hers: Challenge accepted.
She shakes her head, her hair flying about her face. “I mean standing up. I don’t think . . . I don’t . . . oh, God.” She tightens her grip on my hair, and I guess she changes her mind.
