kissed her and kissed her until suddenly she found herself sprawled on something, doing another thing she hardly had a name for.
She supposed the term for it was making out . They were making out on the couch, like the teenager she’d never actually been. But the thing was—it didn’t feel like something so small and simple.
It felt like something big, and all-consuming.
His mouth felt wet, so wet. And this time he didn’t hold back with the tongue. She felt it slide over hers, slippery and lewd and thrilling all at the same time, and had to fight to not do something crazy like freeze or squirm.
Either might suggest to him that he should stop. And if he stopped, she would just die, she would. It was without doubt the best thing that had ever happened to her, and not only because of the tongue and the softness of his mouth and his sudden greediness.
There was also his hand on something perfectly innocent, like her shoulder. Yeah—perfectly innocent, apart from the fact that he very obviously wanted it to be somewhere else. His thumb kept rubbing and rubbing at her there through the material of her jersey, as if he just needed to have a focus point. Something to distract him from going to the places he’d usually go to.
And there was something both frustrating and maddeningly arousing about that. His restraint made something burn low and deep in her belly, and then his mouth, oh God his mouth.
He tasted like cinnamon, again, and every now and then he’d pull away, just a little—just enough to make her want to drag him back. Before giving her a teasing lick with that perfect, curling tongue of his.
It set all the nerve endings in her upper lip on fire. She had to stop herself from reaching up and rubbing something like normal feeling back into the area, before the urge to writhe against him grew too strong.
Because it was getting pretty out of control. She hadn’t meant it, and suspected that he definitely hadn’t. He’d seemed averse to moving their suddenly passionate kiss to the couch, and had absolutely opposed anything like lying down.
But after a while they’d ended up like this anyway—the back of her head almost on the arm of the seat. His body over hers, solid and glorious. If she shifted just a little he’d be between her legs, and then what?
Oh God, then what?
“Evie, stop,” he said between kisses. She should have been relieved. She should have, but really all she could feel was the heavy and constant ache between her legs. How warm it made her feel, how daring.
And of course it only got worse when he said, “God, baby, you’re so greedy .”
It didn’t even humiliate her. Somehow he made it sound like the sweetest, sexiest compliment, and when she pushed a hand through his hair and tried to get him to kiss her again, his lips parted. A ripple seemed to go through his body, as though it affected him as strongly as it affected her.
And then he just went right back to those hot, wet kisses, only this time his hand slid down to her waist. His body shifted, until he was suddenly and actually between her legs.
Of course, there were many things between them still. His jeans, her voluminous skirt. A thing that felt like a cushion, trapped between her left thigh and his right. But something was different the moment he moved, and she knew it immediately.
For a start, a solid mass now seemed to be pressing right over the plump curve of her sex. And though rationally she knew it was absolutely not his erection, and equally understood that moving in any way constituted an immediate trip to hell, she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
It was like scratching an itch she’d had for nineteen years. It made her want to do insane things, like hook a leg over his hip and really go to town. But of course if she did that, he’d understand exactly what was going on. He’d be horrified, that she’d decided to rub herself on him like a complete and total whore, and no amount of but it feels so amazing
She supposed the term for it was making out . They were making out on the couch, like the teenager she’d never actually been. But the thing was—it didn’t feel like something so small and simple.
It felt like something big, and all-consuming.
His mouth felt wet, so wet. And this time he didn’t hold back with the tongue. She felt it slide over hers, slippery and lewd and thrilling all at the same time, and had to fight to not do something crazy like freeze or squirm.
Either might suggest to him that he should stop. And if he stopped, she would just die, she would. It was without doubt the best thing that had ever happened to her, and not only because of the tongue and the softness of his mouth and his sudden greediness.
There was also his hand on something perfectly innocent, like her shoulder. Yeah—perfectly innocent, apart from the fact that he very obviously wanted it to be somewhere else. His thumb kept rubbing and rubbing at her there through the material of her jersey, as if he just needed to have a focus point. Something to distract him from going to the places he’d usually go to.
And there was something both frustrating and maddeningly arousing about that. His restraint made something burn low and deep in her belly, and then his mouth, oh God his mouth.
He tasted like cinnamon, again, and every now and then he’d pull away, just a little—just enough to make her want to drag him back. Before giving her a teasing lick with that perfect, curling tongue of his.
It set all the nerve endings in her upper lip on fire. She had to stop herself from reaching up and rubbing something like normal feeling back into the area, before the urge to writhe against him grew too strong.
Because it was getting pretty out of control. She hadn’t meant it, and suspected that he definitely hadn’t. He’d seemed averse to moving their suddenly passionate kiss to the couch, and had absolutely opposed anything like lying down.
But after a while they’d ended up like this anyway—the back of her head almost on the arm of the seat. His body over hers, solid and glorious. If she shifted just a little he’d be between her legs, and then what?
Oh God, then what?
“Evie, stop,” he said between kisses. She should have been relieved. She should have, but really all she could feel was the heavy and constant ache between her legs. How warm it made her feel, how daring.
And of course it only got worse when he said, “God, baby, you’re so greedy .”
It didn’t even humiliate her. Somehow he made it sound like the sweetest, sexiest compliment, and when she pushed a hand through his hair and tried to get him to kiss her again, his lips parted. A ripple seemed to go through his body, as though it affected him as strongly as it affected her.
And then he just went right back to those hot, wet kisses, only this time his hand slid down to her waist. His body shifted, until he was suddenly and actually between her legs.
Of course, there were many things between them still. His jeans, her voluminous skirt. A thing that felt like a cushion, trapped between her left thigh and his right. But something was different the moment he moved, and she knew it immediately.
For a start, a solid mass now seemed to be pressing right over the plump curve of her sex. And though rationally she knew it was absolutely not his erection, and equally understood that moving in any way constituted an immediate trip to hell, she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
It was like scratching an itch she’d had for nineteen years. It made her want to do insane things, like hook a leg over his hip and really go to town. But of course if she did that, he’d understand exactly what was going on. He’d be horrified, that she’d decided to rub herself on him like a complete and total whore, and no amount of but it feels so amazing
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