Read Online Play Me Real by Tracy Wolff - Free Book Online Page B

wanted to make him feel half as good as he always makes me feel.
    But now, with Sebastian all but plundering my mouth, with thoughts of Nico Valducci and Dylan and the absolute, utter unpredictability of fate racing through my head, I don’t want to be clear. Don’t want to be perfectly lucid. I’d much rather sink into the softness, into the strange, floaty feeling that Sebastian brings out in me with just a kiss, a touch, a
look
.
    Air is becoming a problem, but I don’t care. I keep my head tilted and my mouth open for him so that he can take and take and take.
    And he does. Oh, God, he does.
    He
plunders
me. And I love every second of it.
    He kisses me until my mouth is sore. Until my lips are swollen. Until my jaw aches and I don’t have the energy to do much more than move my lips gently against his own. And then he kisses me some more.
    His hands come up, cup my still naked breasts. He toys with my nipples, pinching them hard enough to get my attention but not hard enough to hurt. I arch my back, push against his hands, trying to get more pressure. Trying to make it hurt, to make it sting just a little.
    But he won’t give it to me.
    He won’t do anything but rub a gentle finger around my areola.
    Flick his thumb softly across my nipple.
    Nip lightly at my lower lip.
    “Sebastian?” His name is a question on my lips, a plea that I don’t know how to vocalize. He’s not giving me what I want but in this moment, when my brain is sluggish and my body feels like it’s drowning in sweet, sweet syrup, I don’t know how to ask for what I need.
    I arch toward him again, push my breasts more firmly into his chest. Rub myself against him. Mutter soft pleas into his ear. And wait for him to understand—for him to give me what I’m dying for.
    But the closer I get to him, the more he pulls back until our only point of contact is his mouth on mine and his finger against my breast. He’s stroking me now, his hand gliding softly, sweetly over the underside of my breast.
    It’s not what I want, what I need, and I whimper in real distress.
    “What’s wrong, baby? Doesn’t that feel good?”
    It does, of course it does—everything Sebastian does to me feels good—but it’s not enough. Not close to being enough.
    “Please.” I bite at his mouth, suck his lower lip between my teeth. He stiffens, lets me have my way for one brief second, two. And then he pulls away.
    “Please,” I say again, so desperate for his touch that I’m begging now. Chanting, “Please, please, please,” in a broken voice I barely recognize as my own.
    He laughs a little, then—finally—pinches my nipple. Quick and hard and just a little painful. Exactly as I like it. Fireworks go off behind my eyes, and I sink deeper into the lassitude, deeper into the warm and sticky syrup that pulls at me on a soul-deep level.
    “Is this what you want?” he asks, his breath hot against my ear as he finally relinquishes his claim on my mouth.
    “Yes,” I tell him.
    “This?” he asks again, squeezing my nipple a little harder than he did before.
    “Yes.” God, yes. “Yes, yes, yes.”
    “Or do you want this?” He grabs my nipple, twists it and I scream a little as the pain melts into the most wonderful pleasure.
    “Yes,” I breathe, so far gone that I don’t even think to temper my response. This is all new to me—the way he’s touching me, the way I’m responding to the little shocks of pain with overwhelming, awe-inspiring pleasure. I didn’t even know I wanted this before Sebastian, didn’t have a clue what the right touch could do to my body. And now—now I can’t imagine what it would be like not to have this.
    Not to have him.
    He moves his hand to my other breast, follows the same pattern—pinch, squeeze, twist—with my right nipple that he did with my left. I cry out, call his name again, but he just laughs. Does it again. And when my body sags against his, he takes the weight for several long, delicious seconds before