lowered her hands, let one cup her breast, her fingers caressing her nipple. The other went between her parted thighs, pressing onto her hard clitoris.
She remembered the hot silk of his tongue against hers. The way he held her so firmly. As if he owned her. How she’d loved it.
She began to circle her clitoris, pressing, pressing, pausing only to dip down, to push one finger inside herself, then two.
“Oh yes,” she murmured.
She tilted her hips, beginning a pumping rhythm, fucking herself with her fingers. Letting the pleasure drift over her in lovely waves.
She remembered the strange pale green shot with gold of his eyes, the dark brows that looked almost menacing when he was holding himself over her, fucking her. So much intensity there, a thrilling darkness. It was as though pleasure
changed
him, opened up something, turned him into something more primal. She loved it.
She pressed her fingers deeper, angled them to hit her G-spot. Remembered his big, beautiful cock. She spread her thighs wider, added a third finger, trying to duplicate that sensation of being utterly filled.
Pleasure surged, deep in her belly, her clit, her breasts, pulsing with need. She gave her nipple a sharp pinch, let the pain and the pleasure wash over her. Knew that he did it better. It was still good. But less so, without the interplay, the power exchange.
Connor.
She remembered her response to his command, the way it made her shiver. Remembered how her body had felt, crushed beneath his. The thrill that he had taken her from behind their first time together, how it felt a little dirty. She loved that, too.
Connor.
She moved her hand faster, fucking herself hard, her hips pumping. She twisted her nipple between her fingers. Pleasure shafted through her with a keen, lovely edge, and she felt herself nearing her peak.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Come on, Connor. Fuck me.”
She plunged her fingers into her aching sex, let her nipple go to pinch her clit, hard. Pleasure roared through her, along with the small bit of pain that took her over the edge.
“Ah, Connor!”
She shivered with it, wave after wave, her body jerking, the water splashing around her.
Finally it was over, and she let herself drift in the heat of the water, her muscles loose.
Somehow, it wasn’t enough.
She washed herself, the soapy sponge seeming to light her sensitized skin on fire. Needing more. Needing him.
She rinsed off, got out of the bath, wrapped a thick moss-green towel around herself, not wanting to see her reflection in the mirror. To have to look at her own post-climax gratification. At the hunger she knew would be clear in her eyes, a hunger that was still somehow unsated.
She marched back into the bedroom. She’d get into her yogapants, order some dinner from one of the many take-out menus Dylan kept in the kitchen and distract herself with a movie. Or maybe she’d draw until it was time for bed.
Her gaze flicked to the bed, to her small silver train case sitting on the floor next to it that held her vibrators. Oh yes, she knew what she’d be doing at bedtime. But not yet. She’d just had a ripping orgasm in the bathtub; she didn’t need to come again so soon.
Except that she did.
She huffed out a breath. Where the hell had she put her yoga pants?
Her cell phone buzzed. She’d left it on vibrate all day. Now she could barely listen to that sound without her body lighting up, craving the vibration. She’d do better to put the ringer back on.
She picked up the phone, checking to see who it was, saw Dylan’s cell number on the screen.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Sorry, Misch, but I just realized our appointment tomorrow at the florist is at ten, not eleven.”
“No problem. I’ll be ready.”
“What are you up to? Have you eaten?”
“I was just about to order something. I just got out of the bath.”
And just had one of the best solo orgasms of her life, which she didn’t need to mention. Or that she planned to do it
She remembered the hot silk of his tongue against hers. The way he held her so firmly. As if he owned her. How she’d loved it.
She began to circle her clitoris, pressing, pressing, pausing only to dip down, to push one finger inside herself, then two.
“Oh yes,” she murmured.
She tilted her hips, beginning a pumping rhythm, fucking herself with her fingers. Letting the pleasure drift over her in lovely waves.
She remembered the strange pale green shot with gold of his eyes, the dark brows that looked almost menacing when he was holding himself over her, fucking her. So much intensity there, a thrilling darkness. It was as though pleasure
changed
him, opened up something, turned him into something more primal. She loved it.
She pressed her fingers deeper, angled them to hit her G-spot. Remembered his big, beautiful cock. She spread her thighs wider, added a third finger, trying to duplicate that sensation of being utterly filled.
Pleasure surged, deep in her belly, her clit, her breasts, pulsing with need. She gave her nipple a sharp pinch, let the pain and the pleasure wash over her. Knew that he did it better. It was still good. But less so, without the interplay, the power exchange.
Connor.
She remembered her response to his command, the way it made her shiver. Remembered how her body had felt, crushed beneath his. The thrill that he had taken her from behind their first time together, how it felt a little dirty. She loved that, too.
Connor.
She moved her hand faster, fucking herself hard, her hips pumping. She twisted her nipple between her fingers. Pleasure shafted through her with a keen, lovely edge, and she felt herself nearing her peak.
“Come on,” she whispered. “Come on, Connor. Fuck me.”
She plunged her fingers into her aching sex, let her nipple go to pinch her clit, hard. Pleasure roared through her, along with the small bit of pain that took her over the edge.
“Ah, Connor!”
She shivered with it, wave after wave, her body jerking, the water splashing around her.
Finally it was over, and she let herself drift in the heat of the water, her muscles loose.
Somehow, it wasn’t enough.
She washed herself, the soapy sponge seeming to light her sensitized skin on fire. Needing more. Needing him.
She rinsed off, got out of the bath, wrapped a thick moss-green towel around herself, not wanting to see her reflection in the mirror. To have to look at her own post-climax gratification. At the hunger she knew would be clear in her eyes, a hunger that was still somehow unsated.
She marched back into the bedroom. She’d get into her yogapants, order some dinner from one of the many take-out menus Dylan kept in the kitchen and distract herself with a movie. Or maybe she’d draw until it was time for bed.
Her gaze flicked to the bed, to her small silver train case sitting on the floor next to it that held her vibrators. Oh yes, she knew what she’d be doing at bedtime. But not yet. She’d just had a ripping orgasm in the bathtub; she didn’t need to come again so soon.
Except that she did.
She huffed out a breath. Where the hell had she put her yoga pants?
Her cell phone buzzed. She’d left it on vibrate all day. Now she could barely listen to that sound without her body lighting up, craving the vibration. She’d do better to put the ringer back on.
She picked up the phone, checking to see who it was, saw Dylan’s cell number on the screen.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Sorry, Misch, but I just realized our appointment tomorrow at the florist is at ten, not eleven.”
“No problem. I’ll be ready.”
“What are you up to? Have you eaten?”
“I was just about to order something. I just got out of the bath.”
And just had one of the best solo orgasms of her life, which she didn’t need to mention. Or that she planned to do it
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