He sidles up behind me, brings the phone around in front of me, and, swiping back to the beginning of the series, and shows them to me. “See? Look how sexy you are in these.”
I swipe through, and damn if I don’t actually look pretty damn good. The red lingerie compliments my tan skin and brown hair, and my body actually looks…
Sexy.
I smile at him. “You’re just a good photographer,” I say, still not quite willing to give it up, for some stupid reason.
He just shakes his head. “You couldn’t take a bad picture if you tried.”
I laugh. “You haven’t seen me first thing in the morning.”
His grin is fierce. “Not yet, I haven’t. But I plan to.”
Heat boils through me. “What if I’m ugly and have bad breath?”
“You’re never ugly, and I have mouthwash.” He sets the phone on the counter, and now he’s towering behind me, his arms imprisoning me between them. “I want to take a few more pictures of you, if you’ll let me.”
I sigh. “I get the point, Jesse.” I tap the phone screen. “I actually do look pretty good in those.”
His hands skate down the sides of my hips, and then upward, grazing my belly and coming to a halt just beneath my breasts. “Trust me,” he murmurs.
I want his hands to go upward, but instead, I whisper my acquiescence. “Okay.” I straighten my spine and summon my courage. “How do you want me, Mr. Photographer?”
He chuckles, a sound that manages to convey amusement and arousal at the same time. “How do I want you?” He puts his lips to my ear, whispering, “I want you on your hands and knees in my bed. I want you above me, those big beautiful tits bouncing in my face. I want your thighs wrapped around my face. I want you bent over this counter, screaming my name.”
I whimper, leaning back against him. “I like the sound of all of that.”
He slides his palms up over the cups hiding my breasts. “I’ve been dreaming of these night and day.”
“Well, there they are,” I murmur, in a fit of wild originality.
He touches his lips to my nape, and his fingers dance and traipse around to my back. With a flick of his fingers, he unhooks my bra, and then his hand slides smoothly up the bare skin where the strap used to be—up to my shoulders, brushing the straps away. I clutch the cups in place for a moment, and then let my arms fall to my sides before reaching up and behind me to grasp at him, at his hair, his beard.
My bra topples to the counter with a soft thud. Jesse’s hands spread across my stomach and then, once more, carve upward. I catch my breath, and my lip between my teeth, as his big strong hands finally, at long last, alight beneath my breasts.
Hesitantly, reverently, he cups their weight, lifting them, caressing them. He moans against the back of my neck, and I feel his erection against my buttocks, throbbing hard and thick behind his underwear. I have my hands bunched in his hair, my head tilted back to rest on his shoulder. He spends several long moments just playing with my breasts, cupping and kneading, thumbing my nipples until I’m gasping and flinching.
And then, without warning, he lets them go. I open my eyes to see him with my phone in hand, swiping from the lock screen to activate my camera. Standing behind me, he holds the camera away facing us, and snaps a photo of us like this. He taps the thumbnail and we see the photograph: he’s huge behind me, his chest broad and his tattooed arms vanishing behind the camera angle, his hair a wild mane of black, his eyes merry and hot and aroused. I look sensual, erotic—my hair is loose and still curly, my eyes smoky, lips red, skin tan, and my breasts are firm and round, my nipples thick and tall from his attention.
It is possibly the hottest photo I’ve ever seen—and it’s of me. Of us.
I’m about to comment on this when he tosses the phone onto the counter. “I can’t wait any longer,” he growls.
There’s no time to wonder what he means—he slides to a crouch behind me, fingers hooking into the waistband of my thong. His lips touch the small of my back, and then the upper bell of my left hip, and I’m breathless from his kiss, from the touch of his lips to my flesh. His lips kiss downward to the waistband of my thong, and as he kisses along it, he tugs it lower and lower, following its descent with his lips, from one side of my buttocks to the other. I grip the counter and endure his kisses, gasping now and then. I can’t even gasp when, finally, he tugs them past the swell of my ass so they tumble to the floor at my feet. And, just like that, I’m naked.
But he’s not done.
His mouth continues to lave kisses over my thighs and buttocks, while his hands curl around my legs and inch upward, his fingers dancing along the insides of my thighs. Up and up and up his hands dare, and my lungs contract until I’m dizzy and have to suck in air. My breath is shot right back out of me the next instant, though, when his fingers dance up to the juncture of my thighs, and pause.
“Jesse?”
He murmurs in response, a wordless answer to my inarticulate question. My core trembles, soaked and slippery with desire, as his touch inches nearer. I clutch the counter with a white-fingered grip, barely breathing. His teeth sink into my left buttock, nipping sharply, eliciting a shriek from me—the shriek morphs into a drawn-out moan as he traces my seam with a fingertip. There’s not the gradual intrusion as in the parking lot; this time, he sweeps his finger up my opening once, and then presses two fingers to the hypersensitive nub of nerves at the apex of my core. It hardens at his touch, begging for attention; two slow circles of his fingers, and I’m gasping. Three, four, five—faster and faster, and I’m shaking, knees quaking, hips helplessly flexing. Two fingers, and he has me undulating on the edge of orgasm faster than I’ve ever gotten there in my life, even on my own. His other hand cups my breasts, one and then the other and then both, playing with them and caressing. As I start to move into his touch, he starts to play with my nipples, flicking them, pinching, twisting, thumbing, until I’m a writhing, seething mess of dripping arousal, moaning and whimpering and utterly desperate for the edge to come so I can topple eagerly over it.
But when I’m moments from reaching the cusp of climax, he stops, grabs me by the hips, and spins me around. It’s an abrupt, rough maneuver that leaves me gasping and dizzy, my breasts jiggling from the movement.
“Jesse, I—please, don’t stop now. I was so close!” My voice cracks into a whisper at the end.
He just smirks up at me. “You think I’d leave you like this?”
“I don’t—I don’t know.”
He palms my ass and pulls me closer, shifting to his knees on the floor, gazing up at me. I knot my hand in his hair as he leans closer to me, as I realize his intent. Oh god, please, please, please—it’s been so long since I’ve gotten that, and I want it so badly, I want to feel his tongue and his beard and his—
Thoughts fly out of my head as he kisses my core—a true kiss. And another kiss, and another, each one hotter, each one more passionate, and then the kisses turn into his tongue slathering against my seam and slipping between my lips and finding my hardened center. I cry out, a sobbing moan of pure ecstasy as he laves tonguing kisses over every inch of my core. I writhe against his mouth, sagging back against the counter, groaning gasps and crying and sobbing as he worships me with his mouth.
He growls in that feral, utterly masculine way of his as he works me to climax. When I reach the edge, I can’t help but scream. I’ve never felt anything like this in my life, never known this intensity, this wondrous, pure, fiery perfection. He licks and laps and kisses until I’m weak in the knees and openly crying from equal parts relief and ecstasy and wonder.
And then, when I can handle no more, I have to push his face away. “Stop…” I whimper. “I can’t—no more.”
He kneels before me, gazing up at me between the pendulous globes of my breasts, my essence beaded in his beard. “You’re a goddess, Imogen.”
And then he rises gracefully to his feet, hooks his hands under my thighs and lifts me into the air. Instinct
ively, I wrap my legs around him, and his hands cup my ass to support my weight.
I cling to him as he walks with me to the stairs near the front door, and I can’t help but kiss his forehead and his cheeks and his neck as he carries me effortlessly up the stairs.
His bedroom is at the top of the stairs, but I see nothing of it, only the retreating view of the stairs as he carries me into his room and to his bed. He stands at the foot his bed, holding me up, my legs tangled around his waist, gazing into my eyes for a long moment.
And then he bends over, laying me on the soft, downy comforter. I’m surrounded by softness and warmth, and he’s above me, a beautiful, powerful, attentive, incredible man who just gave me the most stunning, breathtaking orgasm of my life.
“I need more of you, Imogen,” he says.
I’m spread naked beneath him, every part of me bare to him, offered up to him. He’s tasted me, felt me come. He’s touched every inch of my body.
Yet he still wants more?
I reach for him, and this time, he lets me.
13
His hands hang at his sides, loosely clenched, and his breathing is slow and even, as if he hadn’t just carried me up a flight of stairs. When I sit up and reach for him, his lips curl into a grin. His erection tents the front of his underwear. I lick my lips in anticipation of seeing all of him, which for some reason makes him snort a laugh.
“What?” I ask, my fingers hooked in the waistband. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No, never. I just didn’t realize it was possible until just now that someone could be adorable and erotic at the same time.”
“Adorable?”
He nods. “The way you licked your lips? It was just…adorable. And erotic.”
“I’ll take adorable and erotic.”
“I’ll take you,” he growls.
“Didn’t you just do that?” I tease.
He shakes his head. “That was just…a preview.”
If that was a preview, I can’t wait to find out what the full program will do to me.
I’m stalling.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, my fingers hooked in his underwear, I let out a slow breath and glance up at him. He just smiles at me and briefly toys with my breasts, as if he just can’t help himself.
My heart is crashing in my chest as I draw the elastic away from his body and peel the cotton undergarment downward. He steps out of them and toes them aside.
Ohhhh god. Holy hell.
Talk about perfection. Standing straight upright against his belly, he’s a thick shaft of veiny, throbbing arousal. The round head gleams wetly, begging for my touch. I reach a hesitant hand out, and then grasp him. One hand isn’t nearly enough—it takes both of my hands to fully encompass his entire length. With one small hand wrapped around his thick erection, I stroke him slowly, watching the path of my hand up to the head, watch my palm wrap over the bulbous, pre-cum-leaking tip, and then slide back down.
I glance up at Jesse: he’s got his arms crossed over his chest, and his jaw is tensing, flexing, and his breathing is coming fast and ragged. “You okay?” I ask.
He nods, tightly. “Better than okay. I wish I could feel your hand around me like that forever, without having to come. But as it is, I’m riding the edge here, and I need you.” He pulls away from me, out of my grip, and then prowls forward. I crawl backward on the bed as he crawls forward onto it, predatory and male and primal. Every inch of him is beautiful, the way his muscles shift powerfully as he crawls toward me, the wild mane of his jet-black hair, the soft, shaggy beard, the tattoos. My breath catches at this vision: Jesse, crawling for me, hunger in his eyes, his arousal bobbing and swaying as he moves, his muscles shifting in the moonlight coming in from the windows.
I reach the head of the bed, leaning against headboard and pillows, and he’s above me, reaching for me. His hand curls around the back of my neck and he lifts me up to him, taking a dizzying kiss from me. Again, as with every time I’ve ever kissed Jesse, I’m soon lost in it. In him. In the sweep of his tongue and the slant of his lips and the warm huff of his breath. He’s just as lost in the kiss, I want to think, lowering himself over me, burying his mouth against mine, moaning into my breath. Curling me closer, his hands exploring my body without purpose except to feel me, to touch me, to indulge in the pleasure of my feminine flesh.
The drugging potency of his kiss dizzies me, leaves me gasping. “Jesse…” I whisper.
He brushes a thumb over my cheekbone. “Imogen?”
“Kiss me again. And…please, don’t stop.”
He levers an arm beside my head, supporting his weight on it as he opens a drawer in his bedside table. Withdrawing a box of condoms, he rips the top open with a glance at me. “Brand-new box because I’ve never brought anyone here. I bought these today, hoping and fantasizing about bringing you here someday. I didn’t think it’d actually happen today, though.”
He rips a square free and tosses the box and the rest of the strip aside, and moves back to his knees. Hands shaking with need and with anticipation, I take the wrapper from him and tear it open to reveal the ring inside. I remove it, fit the latex to the thick, round head of him, and roll it down, hand over hand, enjoying the way he groans incoherently at my touch.
Instead of moving over me, he reaches for me, extending his hand. I take it, and he draws me upright to a sitting position. He sinks back to sit on his heels, and pulls me to him.
“What are you doing?” I ask, unsure of his intent.
His only response is to guide me up onto my knees and then to sit on my heels in a mirror of his own position, so we’re both on our knees, sitting on our heels facing each other. He draws me closer yet, palming a breast as I lean into him, his other hand going for my ass. My own hands begin their own exploration, sliding over his massive shoulders and down the serpentine S of his spine to his firm buttocks. His lips find mine, and now I can delve into this, now I can trust him to know what he’s doing with me. When he kisses me, the world fades and my doubts vanish and my fears are erased and everything is right and perfect, because he’s kissing me.
The deeper our kiss goes, the wilder my pulse hammers, the hotter and wetter my core becomes. The more I need him.
I lift up on my knees, smashing my breasts against his chest, clutching his face in both hands. His palms cup my ass, lifting me higher, and now I understand.
“Yes,” I breathe.
He lifts me up, pulls me close. My pulse is a coruscating crescendo in my veins, and my heart—the physical one—is squeezing madly, while my metaphysical heart is blossoming open like a flower stretching upward for the sunrise. I reach between us, clutch the latex-sheathed magnificence of his erection and guide him to me.
I have to break the kiss to whimper as the head nudges my opening.
“Jesse…” I sob.
His voice is as ragged as mine when he answers. “God…Imogen.”
He grips a buttock in each hand, holding me up, and I clutch him, drawing out the moment.
It’s up to me, I realize.
He’s waiting for me.
I press my forehead to his and breathe in slowly, take his upper lip between my teeth, and claim a fierce, wilding, ungentle kiss. He moans, a sound I feel in the crush of my breasts against his chest—he needs me, that’s what the moan says: don’t draw it out any longer.
I sink down onto him, sobbing as he fills me. His roar laces through my sob, and he releases my ass to let me slap down onto his thighs. He fills me and stretches me and I can’t take anymore, but I’m still stretching around him, and I’m filled by the burning aching swell of accepting his enormity inside me. He’s fully impaled in me now, and I’m sitting on his thighs. My breasts are pressed against his face, and he takes the opportunity to bathe my nipples with kisses, and then he moves to the undersides, in the tender flesh where they meet my chest, the delicate inner skin, and then finally he takes my nipple into his mouth and suckles until I moan, and have to move.
I rise up, whimpering as he slicks out of me, until just the fat thick head remains inside me, and then I crush downward, a loud shriek leaving me as he spears into me. His voice joins mine, a guttural cry as he drives in, our hips meeting once more. He cups my breasts and lifts them to his mouth, worshipping them one and then the other in alternating rhythm.
I lift up again, and this time, I know there won’t be any stopping. I clutch his shoulders for support as I rise, drawing him out, and then take another kiss from his mouth as we merge and crash together, our voices united in mutual ecstasy. Jesse clutches at me as I rise up again immediately, needing the fullness of him, needing the slide of his throbbing arousal through me. His hands hold me hard against his chest, holding him as he thrusts deep into me, my buttocks smashed flat against his thighs, my breasts in his face, his breath on my throat, his hair tickling and pungently male.
He falls backward without warning, taking me with him, and now I’m on top of him, straddling him, and his hands roam my back and my hips and my ass and then slide up to cup my breasts and flick my nipples, before palming my face and bringing my mouth to his.
“Ride me, Imogen,” he breathes, our lips brushing, his words felt as much as heard.
I have no choice but to obey—it’s what I need, more than my next breath, more than anything, I need to ride him to our mutual completion. There is nothing but sensation. Only him, only his scent, the powerful bulge of his muscles, the hard plane of his chest beneath me, his hips angular under mine, his arousal throbbing and hot and thick inside me, his hands exploring me, tangling in my hair and carving down my spine to cradle my ass, encouraging me to move.
Move; move.
I need it. I need the slide and grind—I claw my hands into his chest, leaning against him for balance, for support, my hair draping in brown curtains around our faces, blocking out all the world and even his room and the walls and the silver wash of the moonlight. I don’t want this to end, I don’t want to stop, I don’t even want to come yet, I just want to feel this forever, for as long as I can. I’ve never been so full, never felt so filled, never felt so stretched. My core aches and tingles from the thickness of him spreading me so far open, and I’ll know I’ll be so sore it’ll be hard to walk later, but it’s perfect right now and I don’t want to stop.
The Naughty Boxset Page 76
