“Okay.”
“I want my fill of you.”
A long shuddering exhale. “I think I want my fill of you too.”
I give her a wicked grin. “That’s the plan, isn’t it?”
She smiles back, a smile that flickers into an adorable look of concentration as my finger probes her folds and slowly teases at the wet, soft border of her entrance. And then tenderly, carefully, I push in to the first knuckle, watching her face the entire time. She’s so goddamn tight, so goddamn small, that even with all her wet coating me, the tip of my finger still feels like a huge invasion.
I have to swallow when I think about how she’ll fit around my cock. She’ll stretch around me, grip me, fit me tighter than a glove.
Jesus Christ. I’m about to blow inside my pants again.
“This is how I’ll get you ready to take my body,” I explain in a kind voice, trying to focus on what we’re doing and THE PLAN, SEAN, THE FUCKING PLAN, which involves us going to bed together in a certain kind of way and does not involve me shoving my hand down my slacks and tugging on myself.
At least not at the moment.
I slide in to the second knuckle and watch her furrow her brow, as if she can’t decide if it hurts or it feels good. “I’ll stroke you from the inside, tickle you there and play with you, until you open up like a flower,” I continue. “Until you feel how empty you are. Until it hurts more to have me on the outside of you than on the inside.” I crook my finger up to press against that special spot on her front wall—I do it gently, gently, gently—and the light glints off her nose ring as she tosses her head back and forth.
“Sean,” she says, and there’s the first sparkle of sweat on her forehead and chest. “That feels…I…”
“Like you have to pee?”
“Yes,” she says, throwing an arm over her face. “Oh my God, I’m so embarrassed.”
I don’t stop what I’m doing. “It’s normal. Just let the feeling pass, darling. Ride it out. Ride it out on my fingers.”
Her legs move around me, her bare toes squeezing and digging into my sofa, as I carefully work the inside of her, and then just as I see her belly relax and her body-panic transform back into pleasure, I lower my mouth and trace the point of my tongue over her stiffened clit.
“Oh,” she breathes. “Oh.”
I alternate long licks and flickers of my tongue, my finger doing its work all the while and rubbing the inside of her wet little cunt, and then my skittish sort-of virgin starts panicking again.
“I—” she can’t find words, but her body is fighting itself, seeking release and also scared of the immense wall of sensation roaring ever closer, and I decide she needs a little persuasion to get all the way there. I take the entire bead of her clit into my mouth and suck.
The response is immediate, gratifying, electric. Something like a keening whimper echoes off the stained concrete and glass of my apartment as her feet dig deeper into the sofa and she arches her body, her inner thighs and belly going taut as a drumskin. And then the first rolling wave hits her, sending my name out of her mouth like a prayer, sending images of stained glass and gold-stitched cloth through my mind, sending spasms and butterfly flutters around my finger and against my tongue as she comes for the first time with me.
It won’t be the last. It won’t even be the last time tonight.
I coax her through the final waves with my mouth and my finger, watching her gorgeous face over the rise of her pubic bone and the planes of her stomach, watching how her eyebrows pinch together in something almost like worry, how her lips work around silent words, how her eyes stare down at me in glazed wonder. And then with a final kiss on her clit, I straighten up and slide my finger out of her, sucking it into my mouth to lick it clean.
Her eyes widen a little, as if she’s never imagined something quite so carnal as a man licking his fingers after touching a woman, and I smirk at her.
“I get a lot dirtier than that, darling. So buckle up.”
Chapter Fourteen
Zenny stares hazily up at me, languid-limbed, redolent of sex, and in a stunningly lovely sprawl that I wish I could look at for the rest of my life; the way her legs are parted easily now, her well-pleasured cunt available to view. The slowing, sated breaths of a woman coming down from orgasm.
“How did you like being eaten, sweetheart?”
“I like it a lot,” she murmurs. “Will you do it again, please?”
I laugh, pleased by her eagerness. “Any time you want. I believe I once promised you that I would show you how I can eat you from behind.”
Her mouth twitches up in a smile. “You did promise that.”
I’m on my knees at the edge of the sofa still, running soothing hands up and down her legs, trying to ignore my cock, which also wants a soothing hand up and down it. “How often do you masturbate?”
There goes that arm over her face again. “I don’t know if I can talk about this.”
I make a noise that would be called a scoff in a Wakefield novel. “Zenny Iverson, the girl who marched into this same apartment and demanded sex, is too shy to talk about masturbation?”
“It’s different,” she says into the crook of her elbow. “Completely different.”
“It’s all sex. And you might as well tell me about it before I make you do it in front of me.”
The arm moves and she looks at me with a blend of intrigue and alarm. “People do that?”
“People have thirty-person orgies and fuck themselves with dildos shaped like Thor’s hammer. I would think masturbating in front of a lover is one of the mildest things one can do.”
That makes her smile again. “Am I your lover?”
“You’re mine,” I say simply, crawling up onto the couch and over her body.
“For a month,” she corrects.
“For a month,” I repeat. “Until you marry Jesus or whatever.” Details, details.
I settle between her legs, groaning when my clothed erection makes contact with her mound and ducking my head down to nip at the tip of her breast before I slide my arms under her shoulders, prop up on my elbows and stare down at her. “Now. Tell me how you touch yourself when you’re alone and how often you do it.”
She turns her head away, but with me on top of her like this, there’s no escaping my gaze, my words.
“Do you use a vibrator?” I ask her, dropping a kiss on the sharp line of her jaw. “Or your fingers? Or do you put a pillow between your legs and rub against it until you feel better?”
My words have the desired effect, making her redden faintly at the rounds of her cheeks and making her breath quicken. “I’ve never used a vibrator,” she whispers. “But a pillow…”
“Yes?”
“And a stuffed animal…this teddy bear I got for my high school graduation. He’s on my bed in my dorm room. Oh God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”
“I can’t either. I’m going to beat myself raw thinking about this for years to come, darling. How do you use the teddy bear? On your side? Do you lay on your belly and grind on him from the top?”
“I straddle him,” she says, closing her eyes, her face still turned away. “I put him between my legs and move on top of him while I’m on my knees.”
“Shit,” I groan, my face dropping to the rose-scented curve of her neck. The image of Zenny in her dorm room rubbing her needy pussy against a teddy bear is almost too much to hold in my mind. And I’m going to hell for imagining her in knee socks, surrounded by girlish posters, a barely matured girl overwhelmed with these big womanly needs…
“What?” she asks uncertainly. “Is that really fucked up?”
“It’s really fucking hot is what it is,” I mumble into her neck. “And I’m having a really hard time keeping it together right now.”
“Really?” she asks, turning her head back to me. “That turns you on?”
I take her hand and guide it down to the indisputable evidence of my being turned on. “Feel for yourself.”
Her slender hand traces my cock through my slacks, any clumsiness outweighed by her eager curiosity. “I’ve never…” she clears her throat. “That time with Isaac, I never really got to see him. I’ve never been able to see this part of a boy.”
I give her a long kiss, parting her lips with my own and chasing the silky feel of her tongue until she’s panting and twisting underneath me. Then I get up onto my knees. “You showed me your pussy,” I say. “Now it’s my turn to show you something.”
She scrambles up to her elbows, excited. “Are you going to have sex with me now?”
Fuck, I wish. “Not yet, baby. We’re still in Sex 101 right now—and intercourse is a senior thesis at the very least. Get on your knees in front of the couch.”
Together we move, so that I’m standing directly in front of the couch and she’s kneeling in front of me, peering up with these big schoolgirl eyes. She’s sucking on one corner of her mouth, and I can just picture her in a classroom with this same expression—wide-eyed, concentrating, poised to raise her hand at any moment.
“Have you ever unbuckled a man’s belt before?” I ask, already guessing the answer.
She shakes her head slowly. “No.”
“Unbuckle my belt, Zenny. Leave it in the loops when you’ve finished.”
If I thought she looked schoolgirl before, it’s nothing compared to now, when her eyebrows pull together and her forehead wrinkles the tiniest bit in concentration. She reaches for me with the focus of a surgeon, visibly trying to steady her hands as she works at my buckle with precise, careful movements. And then she looks back up at me as she finally manages the glossy leather, as it slides through the metal with a distinct hiss.
It’s the only sound in the room, followed by the muted clack of the buckle piece falling free to the side. It’s such a familiar sound that my dick gives a Pavlovian lurch.
“Now you unzip me,” I instruct. “And you take care with me as you do.”
She does take care, my little honors student, her slender fingers parting the placket of my zipper, the worn gold polish on her nails adding little flashes of color to the show as she finally manages to angle the slider down and tug it over the teeth of the zipper. The noise of it affects us both—it’s a noise of promise, a sound so unmistakably sexual that even a nun recognizes it for what it is.
Then the zipper is down, and the placket parts under the weight of my heavy cock, still clad in the soft jersey of my boxer briefs. Her eyes flicker between my face and the Very Obviously a Penis outlined in my underwear. It throbs visibly under her attention, and her tongue darts out to lick at her lower lip.
I groan.
“Sweetheart, you can’t look at me like that or I won’t make it.”
“Really?” she says, all curiosity and a little flattered smile. “Just from me looking?”
“With you, looking is as dangerous as fucking.” I pause. “Well, nearly. Hands in your lap now.”
“Okay,” she whispers, and her breathless readiness nearly makes me breathless myself as I pull off my shirt in preparation to show her my cock. I toss the shirt onto a nearby chair, and I nearly have a heart attack when I turn back to her.
Little Miss I’m Too Embarrassed to Talk About Masturbating is now slanting sideways on her knees, searching for the right angle to grind her pussy against her heel, her eyes like hunger itself as they trace over the lines of my stomach and chest, over my bare arms and shoulders.
I run a slow hand down the ridges and furrows of my belly, and she whispers, “You’re preening again,” but there’s no heat in it, no judgment, no injunction for me to stop.
“Hell yes, I’m preening,” I tease. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you looking at me like that.” And I mean it; as a young man, I worked for this body because I craved the pride that came with it, I craved the admiration and the petting I earned from women delighted by my shape. But over the years, as with any kind of dopamine hit, the pleasure of being admired faded, and so I kept in shape for duller reasons. I was used to being in shape; staying in shape had become indelibly tangled with my daily routine; it seemed like at this point it would take an effort of its own to stop.
But my God. The way Zenny’s looking at me now, stunned and rapacious, I remember how it felt the first time a girl ever looked at me. The first time I’d ever felt the bolt of lust that came from being wanted. I’m feeling it now like I did then, all this electricity and awareness skittering over my skin, which suddenly feels too tight to contain all the things I’m feeling. Too tight to contain my wanting her, which right now is as big as a prairie storm. Big as the prairie. Big as anything, certainly bigger than what my body can hold.
She reaches up tentatively, and I nod my head, yes, she can, she should, I’ll make her if she doesn’t, because now that she’s reached for me, the thought of not having those curious fingers on me is close to pain.
“Touch me,” I say. “Touch me. Touch me.”
She touches me.
The moment her fingers—slightly cool and delicately shaped—whisper across my stomach, I nearly buckle. The touch zings through me, reverberates like music, up and down every nerve pathway I have.
All from her touching my stomach. God help me when she touches my cock.
“You’re so hard,” she says, a bit wonderingly, her hands sliding up to my chest. She has to lift her ass off her feet to reach my chest, and I can see the wet spot she left on her heel. Jesus.
In fact, I’m so distracted by her distraction over me that I forget to make a joke about the word hard, I forget to do anything but stare down at her while she probes and pets at every plane on my stomach, every line and band of muscle on my back. When she touches my back, she does it by sliding her arms around me, and despite my insistent erection, despite my simmering blood, the feeling of being held and embraced by her is almost more potent than anything else. I want her to hold me forever; I already hate the thought of not having her arms around me.
Her curious hands finally find the band of my boxer briefs, shy at first with little strokes along the edge, then braver and braver as she starts sliding her fingers underneath the fabric. I let her find her own way, summon her own courage. Not out of laziness on my part, or even indulgent amusement (though I can’t deny how heady that feeling is on its own, indulgence, the state of wanting this girl to have whatever she wants, of letting her take it; I’m dangerously close to wanting her to take everything). But honestly I’m doing it because I am suddenly just as nervous as she is, as excited, and also as scared of what lies over the horizon of my own nakedness.
Moving is impossible, coaxing her to any other pace is unthinkable. Any faster and my heart will beat itself right out of my chest in terrified lust; any slower and my blood will overheat with desperation and I’ll die.
There’s only going as she moves us, at this uneven virgin’s pace, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Finally, either courage or impatience (so often they are the same thing) takes hold of her, and I’m treated to the sight of her face as she peels down the front of my boxers. She’s rapt, greedy—and then confused.
My erection has sprung free, bobbing down and then bobbing back up, throbbing, urgent, an angry red. I’ve been so hard for so long that the flared tip shines with pre-cum, and I’ve left a sizable smear of slick near my hip. The fresh influx of cool air across it nearly makes me shiver, and then I do shiver at the sight of her hands wrapped around the waistband of my underwear. But I have to laugh at her expression.
“Not what you expected?”
A glance up at me that I can’t interpret, although if I had to, I might say it was somewhere between saucy and rueful—a look only Zenobia Iverson could pull off. “I don’t know what I expected,” she admits. “But it’s so bumpy.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is big.”
She rolls her eyes. I’ve got the prettiest sort-of virgin in the world on her knees in front of me, my dick in her face, and she’s roll
ing her eyes. My ego wilts a little.
My cock doesn’t mind though.
“No,” she says slowly, “bumpy. Like here.” She runs a gentle finger up the line of one vein on my shaft and I let out a wounded hiss.
She looks alarmed. “Did that hurt?”
“No,” I manage. “Keep going.”
The finger returns and starts tracing a maddening path around all the places I’m ridged and swollen. She draws a map of my veins, she navigates the sensitive shoals of my frenulum. She meanders around the crown and over the leaking slit at the top. Her fingers drop down to my root, circling the base to measure me, and I register a nice swell of masculine pride when I see the tips of her fingers and thumb can’t meet around me—although the pride is still largely secondary to the feeling of her touching my cock because holy fuck, she’s touching my cock.
“I want to see all of you,” she says, oblivious to the effect she’s having on me. Her eyes are on my body, on my abs and my cock and the places where my open pants strain around the muscles of my hips and my ass, and I have to say, her seeing all of me sounds amazing, the best idea anyone’s ever had.
“That can be arranged,” I say, pulling her to her feet and leading her out of the living room and into my bedroom. I don’t bother with lights out of habit, but Zenny flips them on and then gives me a shy smile when I glance back at her. “I need to be able to see,” she says with a little shrug.
“Anything you like, darling.” I wouldn’t miss her exploring my body for the world. For seventy times seven worlds. And I am almost unbearably unworried about how infatuated I am with this girl—I’ve never felt like this about anyone else…but then again, I’ve never met someone like her before, so perhaps it’s not shocking. Perhaps I’d been programmed at birth only to want this one person, and there’s this tiny thing in my mind—not a thought, not even the seed of a thought, but like the frozen root of some dormant plant that might one day years from now drop a seed that can become a full-blown thought—that I can almost remember feeling this way about God once upon a time. That years ago, there used to be a Sean Bell that loved without restraint and reluctance and fear.
Sinner (Priest Book 3) Page 14
