Read Online Playing For Keeps by Dani Weston - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dani Weston
Ads: Link
nodded.
He lifted my right leg. Started with my shoes, pulling each off slowly, studying the curves of my ankles, holding my calf delicately in his palm. He lined the shoes up on the counter, then found the zipper on the side of my pants and released the teeth. He dragged his hands up the length of my legs to the waist of my pants, then gathered folds of fabric over his hands and wrists as he went back down, spreading his hands over my hips, inching across my thighs, collecting the garment on the floor.
My breathing picked up, my breasts rising and falling in time with his careful, deliberate movements. I wondered if I should have felt embarrassed or exposed, sitting here under the bright lights of the kitchen. Being the only one of the two of us undressing. But I didn’t. There was only the thrill of Kevin, whose name few people really knew, slowly lifting my top over my ribs, over my breasts, over my head, then admiring my body with an obvious glint of appreciation in his eyes was empowering, not embarrassing. I loved the way he was adoring me. Being attentive, giving appreciation while, at the same time, taking what he wanted. He cupped my breasts over my bra, staring into my eyes the whole time, asking wordless permission.
Sometimes, back at Delta Gamma, a bunch of us would watch a sexy movie or T.V. show. We’d talk about the bad boys, how they took what they wanted, how they were in control. And there was definitely something appealing about that. About losing control and submitting to someone else. But there was an edge to it, too. I never was quite comfortable with the bad boy hero sweeping the woman, literally at times, off her feet. Surprising her or, God forbid, stalking her.
And now I knew why.
Those guys didn’t ask for permission. They didn’t create safety by indicating that the couple was in it together. But the way Kevin paused before each movement, checking on me, questioning? That was so fucking sexy I could hardly stand it.
I nodded at him, almost imperceptivity. He saw. Reached around and unhooked my bra, then cupped my breasts again, moving his thumbs softly over the rounded flesh. His hands dropped and, again, he paused. When I assented, he slipped my panties down, lifting my hips slightly to get them from under me, then inched them down my legs.
When I was fully undressed, he stepped back and looked at me. I was proud of my body. It was slender and strong, with definition in my abs and my triceps, where I worked hardest when I was on stage, playing my guitar. I blinked up at him.
The way he was looking at me brought up my body temperature, made my pulse pound, tightened my longing for him, sped up the thrumming in my nerve endings. He untucked his shirt, but left it at that, not taking it off fully. I stuck my bottom lip out and he laughed.
“May I touch you?”
I nodded. Yes, please, please, please. I craved those fingers everywhere.
His fingertips were feathers on my legs, walking up my calves. When he got to the backs of my knees, I discovered, for the first time, that I was mildly ticklish there. A giggle escaped and his chest rumbled, too, and he tickled again.
He left my knees and gripped my thighs and my smile faded. My nostrils flared. He kneaded my muscles, worked his hands inwards, massaging the delicate skin of my inner thighs. It felt amazing. Blood rushed to my hips and my pulse quickened. He spread his hands over my belly, then my breasts again, up my neck, which I tilted back, and over my mouth. We locked eyes staring, for a full minute, his hand keeping me silent, the pressure on my lips almost as good as a kiss.
He moved his hands to grip my hips and slide me forward, so that I was on the very edge of the counter. Our faces were almost touching, our breath mingling. The pulse in my neck pounded steadily, anticipating his next move. I breathed in the scent of him. There was so little sound and movement that it was easy to be completely tuned in to one another. I felt
He lifted my right leg. Started with my shoes, pulling each off slowly, studying the curves of my ankles, holding my calf delicately in his palm. He lined the shoes up on the counter, then found the zipper on the side of my pants and released the teeth. He dragged his hands up the length of my legs to the waist of my pants, then gathered folds of fabric over his hands and wrists as he went back down, spreading his hands over my hips, inching across my thighs, collecting the garment on the floor.
My breathing picked up, my breasts rising and falling in time with his careful, deliberate movements. I wondered if I should have felt embarrassed or exposed, sitting here under the bright lights of the kitchen. Being the only one of the two of us undressing. But I didn’t. There was only the thrill of Kevin, whose name few people really knew, slowly lifting my top over my ribs, over my breasts, over my head, then admiring my body with an obvious glint of appreciation in his eyes was empowering, not embarrassing. I loved the way he was adoring me. Being attentive, giving appreciation while, at the same time, taking what he wanted. He cupped my breasts over my bra, staring into my eyes the whole time, asking wordless permission.
Sometimes, back at Delta Gamma, a bunch of us would watch a sexy movie or T.V. show. We’d talk about the bad boys, how they took what they wanted, how they were in control. And there was definitely something appealing about that. About losing control and submitting to someone else. But there was an edge to it, too. I never was quite comfortable with the bad boy hero sweeping the woman, literally at times, off her feet. Surprising her or, God forbid, stalking her.
And now I knew why.
Those guys didn’t ask for permission. They didn’t create safety by indicating that the couple was in it together. But the way Kevin paused before each movement, checking on me, questioning? That was so fucking sexy I could hardly stand it.
I nodded at him, almost imperceptivity. He saw. Reached around and unhooked my bra, then cupped my breasts again, moving his thumbs softly over the rounded flesh. His hands dropped and, again, he paused. When I assented, he slipped my panties down, lifting my hips slightly to get them from under me, then inched them down my legs.
When I was fully undressed, he stepped back and looked at me. I was proud of my body. It was slender and strong, with definition in my abs and my triceps, where I worked hardest when I was on stage, playing my guitar. I blinked up at him.
The way he was looking at me brought up my body temperature, made my pulse pound, tightened my longing for him, sped up the thrumming in my nerve endings. He untucked his shirt, but left it at that, not taking it off fully. I stuck my bottom lip out and he laughed.
“May I touch you?”
I nodded. Yes, please, please, please. I craved those fingers everywhere.
His fingertips were feathers on my legs, walking up my calves. When he got to the backs of my knees, I discovered, for the first time, that I was mildly ticklish there. A giggle escaped and his chest rumbled, too, and he tickled again.
He left my knees and gripped my thighs and my smile faded. My nostrils flared. He kneaded my muscles, worked his hands inwards, massaging the delicate skin of my inner thighs. It felt amazing. Blood rushed to my hips and my pulse quickened. He spread his hands over my belly, then my breasts again, up my neck, which I tilted back, and over my mouth. We locked eyes staring, for a full minute, his hand keeping me silent, the pressure on my lips almost as good as a kiss.
He moved his hands to grip my hips and slide me forward, so that I was on the very edge of the counter. Our faces were almost touching, our breath mingling. The pulse in my neck pounded steadily, anticipating his next move. I breathed in the scent of him. There was so little sound and movement that it was easy to be completely tuned in to one another. I felt
Similar Books
