Unwrapping the Best Man

by Rachael Stewart

  ‘You are...exquisite.’ It’s the only word I can think of to describe how she looks right now, and still it’s not enough. The moonlight makes her look ethereal, magical, and I could almost believe this isn’t real. That it’s a dream, and we can be safe in a dream. I’m still denying myself a touch, a caress, something which would make it feel more real, and I fist my hands at my sides. Not yet.

  I follow the path of her fingers as she trails them around each flushed peak, not quite brushing against their pleading hearts.

  ‘Tweak them,’ I grind out, ‘like I did.’

  She does it. Fuck, she does it and it’s everything. Her eyes are languid, her whimpers carnal and wanton as she brazenly pinches and rolls. I drink her in, all that is familiar and new. Her delicate fingers doing what I’ve only ever imagined before. The bands of twisted gold that she wears on several fingers glint in the white light, and oh, how I want to run my mouth over them, tongue them, toy with them.

  ‘Feel good?’

  She parts her lips, her, ‘Yes,’ so quiet, so breathy.

  I reach out and start to gather up the skirt of her dress, more blood rushing south as I imagine what colour her underwear will be. It’s invisible through her dress; she could be as naked as me beneath.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ I say as she lowers her hands to help. ‘I’ve got this.’

  ‘Fuck, Jackson.’ I love how she says my name, her voice thick with lust, her hands returning to her breasts, more frantic, almost ruthless in their exploration now. I’m driving her crazy but she’s driving me crazier, not that she can know it. My control serves many a purpose and that’s one. I need the upper hand.

  But Christ, I swear she’s my Achilles’ heel.

  As I listen to the crazed whimpers she utters, watch her skin pink up where she’s marked it with her own nails, her own fingers, I’m losing it. The urge to sink my teeth into every indent, every line, to tease her nipples between my teeth—soon, very soon. I fight the carnal haze that’s descending, thick and fast; only when I’m ready, when my sanity dictates, will I let go.

  ‘Pluck them harder...that’s it, baby, let go.’

  The hypocrisy of what I’m asking isn’t lost on me and I bury the judgement in another power trip as she does exactly that, her uninhibited cry rippling through me, provoking one of my own. I touch upon lace at her hip and sweep my other hand beneath her dress, parting her legs to cup her. I feel her wetness, her pleasing warmth through the lace, and grit my teeth to stave off the heat.

  She moves against me, her moan wild, and my cock literally weeps for it all.

  ‘Easy,’ I say through my teeth, but my smile when I can manage one is full of satisfaction that she’s losing it so completely while I remain in control. I lean back and look down over her; she’s not tall but with the gold stilettos adding inches to her she is the perfect height for me, for us. Here. Now.

  My cock bucks against the sporran and I feel the cold air sweep beneath my lifted kilt, the pre-cum at my tip tantalisingly warm. It’s an alien feeling. I’ve never worn a kilt before, but now, here, watching her and having the freedom to stiffen up, no restrictive underwear to get in the way, to feel myself so eager, so ready...

  I smooth my hands around her hips, hooking them inside the lacy waistband of her thong, and slide them down her thighs, her calves, her ankles. ‘Step out.’

  Carefully, she does.

  ‘Thank you,’ I murmur, looking up at her from this fresh angle and wishing her dress was still raised so I could see her in all her wet glory.

  She looks down at me, her smile hot and needy. ‘Shouldn’t I be thanking you?’

  I stand and open up the sporran, slipping the warm lace inside and making the reason for my gratitude clear.

  Her lips make the perfect ‘O’ as the soft sound escapes and I want to tongue it. I want to kiss her so deeply the only sound she can make will come from deep within. But I daren’t. Not until I trust I’m still in control. That I’ve still got this.

  ‘Call it a gift of sorts.’

  ‘Do I get one in return?’

  ‘Hate to break it to you, baby.’ I lean close to her ear. ‘I’m not wearing any to give.’

  When I step back, her eyes aren’t on mine; they are below my waist and the obvious effect she has on me. Her turn. I want the evidence of her need. I want to see it glisten in the moonlight, as obvious as the high colour in her cheeks, the fire in her eyes.

  ‘Lift your dress,’ I command. She does exactly as I ask.

  ‘Good.’ So good, my brain repeats for me. ‘Step wider. I want to see that sweet pussy of yours, all wet for me.’

  My voice breaks and it’s so revealing. The way her eyes flash, her skin flushing anew, I know she’s heard it too. I curse the vulnerability, the exposure, even as I acknowledge that it turns her on more.

  I wet my lips, imagine tongue fucking her, her hands clawing at my hair as I take her to heights she’s never seen before, heights I’m scared I haven’t been to either.

  ‘Show me what you’d like me to do to you,’ I say, blotting out the sudden fear.

  Focus on the way this feels, not what it means to you, the fact that this is Caitlin, the only woman who has ever made you crave more and wish you were different.

  Not true. The denial is fierce, memories trying to claw their way back to the surface that younger me failed to eradicate. But I’m not the teenager or the man I once was. And she’s not Eliza.

  She’s Caitlin. Caitlin. I watch as she holds the dress in place with one hand and trails the fingers of the other lower. My mouth dries, my body pulses; my cock nags me to fist over it, but I refuse to.

  I fold my arms, lock my stance and focus on her pleasure.

  I keep my control locked in place.

  Control which starts with her coming first...and only under my command.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I’M HOOKED ON Jackson’s gleaming gaze. It’s so much more than I ever imagined, being here like this, with his need, his desire so obvious, and all for me.

  I’m not just the Caitlin he teases at the bar, the little redhead who always brings out the protective big brother in him. He wants me.

  Me.

  With one hand gripping my dress in place, I trail my other lower, smoothing over the wrinkled fabric. I know what I’ll find as soon as I brush over my curls: the dampness, the need...

  God, I want it to be him, his fingers, his caress, but seeing the way his eyes darken, his jaw pulses, power swamps me.

  It doesn’t matter that he’s giving the demands, the instruction, the effect I have on him is as powerful as any command he issues.

  ‘I want you to part me...’ I watch his eyes flare at my directness and fall to the V I create with my fingers, separating my folds, exposing my slick, wet heat to his burning gaze. Christ, if the cold wind doesn’t sweep over my throbbing clit and tease as much as a physical caress from his fingers would.

  I keep the dress in place with my arm, freeing my other hand to lower...

  ‘I want you to stroke me...’

  My words break as I do just that and my hips buck into my caress, needing the friction, the tantalising roll.

  ‘I want you...’

  His jaw pulses; his eyes flick up to mine. ‘You want?’

  I bite my lip. This is too much—too much force, too much sensitivity. The icy air adds to the thrill as it sweeps over my naked extremities. My nipples, my pussy, my clit.

  I shake my head as the tell-tale heat swirls through me, tightening up my limbs, my lungs, my breath.

  ‘Tell me, Caitlin.’

  ‘I want you... I want you.’

  ‘Not enough. You need to tell me exactly what you want.’

  Through the lusty fog, the whipping heat, I catch something raw, something honest in his voice and I force my eyes open, force them to connect
with his, to see through whatever this game is. Because it’s more than just sex. Of that I am sure.

  Oh, I’ll tell him everything, deliver every detailed demand, if that’s what he wants, what he needs. Christ, I’ll beg if I have to. I’ll do anything to see this need sated but the severity, the almost desperate need I see in his gaze, feel in his words, has me sobering just enough to question it, but not enough to douse the heat.

  And I know if I question it openly I’ll push him away, just as I see the tightrope on which we currently walk. That, regardless of my vulnerability, my partial nakedness, my surrender, he will walk away from this.

  What I don’t understand is why.

  Jackson is always so sure, so in control, so in command of every situation, but I sense a shift in him. A shift that has me reaching out for his hand and drawing him against my breast, my other hand working myself harder, faster, higher.

  ‘Please,’ I say, coaxing his fingers over my skin. As much as I love getting off with him watching, I want him a part of this—my undoing, my loss of control.

  I want to know he’s losing it too.

  ‘What, Caitlin?’

  ‘I want you to be the one doing this, the one cupping my breasts, caressing, teasing, pinching...’ I arch back against the tree, thrusting them into his touch as I manipulate his hand into doing as I say. ‘I want you to bury your fingers in my...my...’

  ‘Your?’ His voice is rough, thick, and his eyes blaze into mine, the colour high in his cheeks, telling me he’s on fire with me. He strokes his free hand down my arm, follows its path to the apex of my thighs and hovers.

  ‘Your?’ he repeats, more steady, controlled.

  ‘My pussy.’ It erupts out of me and the approval I see in his face is almost my undoing.

  ‘I’ll do it...on one condition.’

  ‘Anything.’ I’m not sure I say it aloud. The blood is whirring in my ears, my body, the pleasure-filled ache fierce and building.

  ‘You cannot come.’

  I gasp as my body bucks uncontrollably, my eyes widening into his, dark and stormy, and what the actual fuck?

  ‘Not until I say.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  I shake my head. ‘I never...’ pant ‘...took you...’ pant ‘...for a sadist!’

  His eyes flash, his smile darkens. ‘Don’t worry, baby, I’ll let you come, just not yet.’

  I rock with the thrill of it, of him getting off on the idea as much as I am.

  I nod. It’s hurried and pleading and oh, my fucking God, if his hand doesn’t drop to my pussy right now I think I’m going to scream, regardless of any unsuspecting audience I may draw, the panic I might spark in him. But he does it. He takes hold of my dress in one hand and nudges both of mine out of the way.

  ‘As you were...’ He nods to the tree trunk stretching out high above our heads and I know exactly what he’s asking. I raise one arm, then the other, and bite into my lip as he gathers the skirt of my dress in his fist and presses it into the tree beside my head, leaning over me. ‘I’m going to stroke you...slow and sure...and you will stay still...very still.’

  I frown into his eyes. Is he for real?

  ‘One movement and I’ll take it away.’

  He is for real and I nod. God help me, I nod.

  I’m not sure I’m even capable of staying still. Hell, I’ve been going to Blacks for six years; I’ve lived out many fantasies ten, twenty times over, but prolonged, delayed pleasure like this? Never.

  ‘Good girl.’ It’s a husky whisper that teases down my spine, making me squirm and wriggle and—

  ‘I said, stay still.’

  I bite my lip harder as I stare up at him and clutch my hands together, pressing them back into the cold, harsh wood.

  ‘Better.’

  Yes. His gruff approval is enough to make me want to whimper and please him and make this game last. He lifts his hand to my neck, his fingers soft, delicate, a frustrating tease.

  ‘So long as you let me reciprocate later.’

  His eyes flick to mine, his fingers pause as they trail over my collarbone. ‘That’s not how this works.’

  I choke back a laugh but I know he senses it, his eyes flashing ever more dangerously.

  ‘I mean it, Cait.’

  He’s so serious that I want to laugh all the more.

  Then I remember his rules—his bedroom rules.

  ‘This is how sex is in my world. If you don’t like it then...’

  I shake my head. God, no. ‘Don’t stop.’

  I clamp my lips together as I breathe in deeply through my nose and let it out slowly, his fingers tracking the movement of my chest as they trail down my skin. His cock juts, lifting his sporran between us, the strength of his need undeniable. He wants me. Really wants me. And I’ve never known a man to want like Jackson does right now and walk away. Would he? Truly?

  I stay still, perfectly still; I’m not about to test it. I’m happy drowning in his gaze as he watches his fingers explore my every inch. He barely touches me, his fingers almost hovering rather than caressing, as though it’s his body heat, the shift in the air between my skin and his that I feel and it’s driving me crazy, making me want to beg, to move, to thrust myself closer.

  But I don’t.

  ‘So you can follow instructions...’ I hear the hint of bemusement in his desire-laden voice, wrapped up in that intoxicating approval, and I bite back the retort I want to give. When you’re the youngest of five, being told what to do is a life hazard and I hate it. Hate it. It brings out my rebellious streak and if he’s not careful—I’m not careful—it will out and this...whatever this is...will be over. Just as he warned.

  He cups one breast, his palm hot and soothing to the intense ache beneath, then his thumb rolls over my nipple and I whimper, fighting the need to move, to beg.

  He repeats the caress, again and again, each time the shot of pleasure ups and the battle to remain still intensifies, the mix taking me higher and higher and—he tweaks the sensitised nub, a sudden pinch between his thumb and forefinger, and my body thrashes, my clit pulses.

  ‘Jackson!’

  He stops and his hand falls away.

  ‘What did I say?’

  I shake my head at him, heaving in a breath. He can’t be serious. How can I...? As I look up into his dark, oppressive gaze I quit the mental ramble and realise the battle I have already lost. I wet my lips and soften my voice, all acquiescing and hopeful. ‘Sorry, I’ll do better.’

  It pleases him; the approval is back in his eyes, and, God, does it please me in turn. It shouldn’t, it really shouldn’t; I’m my own woman, I do what I want. But the squirming heat low in my abdomen tells me otherwise.

  ‘Maybe I should take pity on you.’

  I want to tell him yes, I want to nod, but I’m still too stunned by this turnaround in what makes me tick that I rely on my eyes to do it all and as if he can read them he lowers his hand to the back of my thigh, his palm smoothing upwards, cupping my bare arse, stroking, squeezing.

  ‘I’ve often wondered what you’d feel like. The curve of your arse has teased me one too many times, Caitlin.’

  I want to scold him again for not telling me before, for making me wait for this, but I’m obedient, docile...eager to hear what else he might say.

  ‘Your cheeks are so perfect, so small and round, the perfect shape and size to fill my palm.’

  They do, as he squeezes. I feel his fingers delve between them, a second’s brush against my puckered opening that has my body wanting to gyrate.

  ‘I could feel you like this, explore you like this for ever.’

  For ever. Oh, yes.

  He sweeps around to my front, his fingers curving around my thigh, his thumb brushing over my dampened curls, the briefest touch. I bite into my lip harder and
tense my body head to toe—Do not move. Do not end this.

  He rewards me with a deeper sweep, a deeper caress that teases at my swollen clit—yes.

  ‘Tell me, do you want to move?’

  ‘Yes.’ It comes out strained, needy, desperate, and he grins, his thumb probing and making my nostrils flare, my eyes widen, but I stop my body from bucking just in time.

  ‘Do you want to come?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you wet for me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s find out how wet.’

  I don’t speak. I swallow. I force down the lump of desire that’s wedged my throat closed, and then he rotates his hand, slipping it between my legs. His fingers are hot and teasing as they dip inside me and my pussy clenches around him, desperate to keep him.

  He drags in another ragged breath, withdraws his fingers and raises them between us. He eyes them in the moonlight, all slick with my need. And then he licks them, fucking licks them, slow, unhurried. He lets out a hum—no, a growl—of appreciation and the heat inside me flares.

  ‘You taste so good, Cait,’ he murmurs. ‘So fucking good.’

  ‘Wanna share?’

  The question surprises him; his eyes flash, his jaw pulses. And I’m so fucking turned on to this game that I fear one more brush over my clit and I’ll be gone, regardless of whether he permits me to come or not.

  I hold myself stiff as his hand lowers and he slides his fingers between my thighs, only the slightest touch against my throbbing clit as he coats himself in me, and then he’s back.

  ‘Lick them clean...’ His voice is gruff, his eyes burning into my lips as he presses his slickened fingers against them ‘Taste yourself.’

  I flick my tongue out, separating his fingers in my eagerness as I loop around each and then I take two in whole, sucking along their length and staring into his eyes that tell me exactly how much he enjoys it. His swallow is audible, his groan too.

  ‘Fuck, Cait, I knew you’d be trouble, always trouble.’

  His words penetrate my lust-hazed mind—trouble. Why? If this is just sex, why am I trouble?

  But I have no time to think about it further as his hand returns to my pussy and slowly, too bloody slowly, he parts me and slides against my clit, back and forth, back and forth, while I remain still. His lazy pace makes my hips want to roll, my body pleading for release as the ache turns painful, persistent and so bloody desperate.