And then we’re sliding down, and the towel is coming undone, bunching around my hips, and I feel air cool on my hip as it eases open, and then I’m bared and naked on the bed, and the blanket and sheet is somehow not in the way either. I have to pause to breathe, and my eyes open, meet hers, green-gray-brown wide and liquid and heated with need as fiery as my own. She’s naked, too, from the waist up. All she wears is a pair of underwear, a tiny triangle of black over her core with a thin string around her hips. She’s kicked the covers away, and her hand is running up and down my back, her eyes not wavering from mine, and then her palm slides down and down and down and she’s cupping my ass in her hand, squeezing, caressing, and then she’s lifting up and kissing me, pulling me down.
I’m hard, achingly hard. Bursting with need from every seam and pore. And yet all I want to do is kiss her, so I let myself press her to the bed with my weight, one hand in the mattress at her side, the other tracing over her forehead, sliding honey-blond hair away, and I kiss her.
Her breasts are soft, crushed between us, and one of her knees rises and bends, sliding at my hip. Her hand remains on my ass, holding and squeezing as if she refuses to let go, as if she’s found what she likes and won’t let it go, can’t get enough. That’s how I feel, at least, as I delve into her mouth with my tongue, explore her lips and teeth and gums and tongue and breathe her breath and absorb the wonder of her skin against mine.
But then my knee makes itself known, and I have to break away and gasp in pain as the aching throb tells me I can’t hold this position for long, levered over her like this.
And Echo, god, she seems to know this immediately. She pushes at my chest, and I fall to my side, then to my back, and she’s moving over me, and Jesus, her tits are incredible, round and heavy and swaying, small dark pink areolae and hard button nipples, and my hands find them with a will of their own. I cup and lift them and Echo is sliding a knee across my hips, leaning over me, preparing to bend and kiss me, but her tits are too tempting, and I bring one to my lips, feather my tongue over her nipple and taste its hardness and the salt of her skin.
Echo moans, sinks down to sit on me, back arched and throat bared, breast pressed to my mouth, a hand on my chest. She writhes on me, and I feel her core sliding against my erection, and I’m close to losing it.
“Ben…” she breathes. Her voice is soft with bliss and with need.
All I want, all I need, is to hear her voice, to feel her skin, to explore her body.
And then she grabs my hand, the one not keeping her swaying breast at my lips, and brings my fingers to the scrap of black fabric.
I know what she’s asking of me. Do I dare?
But she’s insistent: “Ben…please. Touch me.”
SEVEN: Chemistry
Echo
I’m a girl who knows what she wants. And when I know, I do something about it. I want Ben, so I do something about it. I know it’s weird and there are reasons why this is a bad idea, but I don’t care. He kisses like a god, with an urgency and a passion that takes my breath away. His hands are gentle and yet strong, and he has this way of letting me decide what I want, and then giving it to me.
I’m aching, hot all over with need. I’m frustrated and grieving and he’s here, big and hard and muscular and sexy and naked. He’s not just a distraction, although I could use one. I know he could make me feel good, and I need that. Shit, I know myself well enough to know if Ben and I bang, it won’t be just once. We’ll need it several times to really get it out of our systems. But then something else speaks, deep inside me, and says that there’s more. I want Ben, that’s easy enough to decide. But do I want to just bang him and go my way, the way it’s been with every other guy? Or do I want more?
Hell, I don’t know. That’s too much to think about when his mouth is on mine and his skin is hot under mine and his hands are on me. One hand is gentle at my face, a thumb brushing at my flyaway hair, palm at my cheek, and now that thumb is at the corner of my lips, where our mouths join, and no one’s ever kissed me this way, touched my face so tenderly and intimately and gently. It’s a heady feeling, dizzying and arousing. Yet he’s not pushing it. Surely it’s evident how much I want this. Surely he knows by now that he can have me, that I’ll not just let him, but I’ll give back as good as I get. But he doesn’t hurry things. He just kisses and caresses, a huge pleasant presence.
Normally, I’d be clawing at my panties and sliding him in, impatient to get started. I’m not afraid to take charge, especially when it comes to sex. Most, if not all, of my partners have been fairly clueless and clumsy if ardent, so if I want things to be at least somewhat satisfying for me, I have to sort of guide them. And that’s fine. I get what I want, and so does the guy. Of course, what a guy wants from sex and what a girl needs are usually very different.
But with Ben, it’s different. I don’t know how, or why. I don’t want to push him; I don’t want to take charge. I want him to be what I need without having to be shown. Because…I think I sense that he can be.
Yet…he’s holding back. And I’m going insane with need. I ache inside. My thighs quiver with need. My core is damp, and I know he can smell my desire. But yet even after I’ve rolled him to ease his weight off his injured knee, and he’s discovered my tits and his mouth latches on and sucks and licks, sending zinging thrills of heated bliss though me, he doesn’t push it past that. Maybe he’s playing a game, pushing me to the edge of sanity. Making me wait.
That’d be hot.
And yet as I gasp and breathe and arch my back, frantic with how good his mouth feels on my nipple, he still keeps his hands away from my core, cupping my boobs and letting me grind on him. God, yes, I feel his erection, and even before I’ve seen it I can tell he’s endowed like a god. And I want it. I want his cock. I need it. I’m crazy for it. But I’m even more desperate to come. He’s kissed me senseless and now he’s driving me wild with his mouth on my tits, and I need more. More.
I find myself clutching the back of his head, my fingers buried in his thick soft black hair, keeping his mouth against my breast, sitting astride him with my back arched to press him closer, my head hanging back on my neck, and I need him to touch me.
So I do something unusual for me: I ask him. “Ben…please. Touch me.”
I’m not an ask-for-it type of girl. I’m a take what I want and if you don’t satisfy me, there won’t be seconds. And honestly, there aren’t usually seconds. I never ask. I know what I want. I know how to get it. I know what I look like and I know guys like it. But somehow, with Ben, everything is just…different. He’s different, and I’m different with him.