God, being a girl was rough. I doubted men had so many thoughts running parallel story lines at once.
He settled onto the bed beside me, so I rolled to lie flat on my back, my head twisted to look at him.
“Hi.” I couldn’t help smiling.
Internal conflict or not, I had a sexy-as-fuck man in my bed, and I’d be damned if I was going to let my stupid haywire brain stop me from appreciating it.
“You’re a loud thinker, Nina, you know that?” He was on his side, facing me, his hand on the pillow between our faces.
“I am?”
“Oh yeah. You’re all sorts of mixed up, aren’t you?”
I frowned at him. “How can you tell?”
His finger touched the bridge of my nose, traced downward. “In the three-ish days that I’ve known you, I’ve seen this little line appear just here quite often. And usually, when I see that little line, you’re all tensed up and I start to wonder if you’re going to just bolt on me or something. What’s wrong?”
“Well, this is my bed, so I can’t exactly bolt anywhere, can I?” Hello, question, let me avoid you.
“Nina.” How could he turn one word, my name, into a scold?
I sighed. “Nothing new, Ian. All of this with you and me, it’s nothing I have any experience with. You’re like nothing, like no one I’ve ever experienced. I just—it’s intense, and it’s confusing, and—it’s just a lot.”
“I’m not disagreeing with you.”
“Everything about you is outside every single one of my neat little boxes.”
One corner of his mouth turned up in a sleepy half-smile. “But Nina, you’ve got to get out of all those little boxes, babe. That’s where life happens, outside the box, where things are scary and exhilarating and new.”
“What’s outside the box for you, Ian?”
“In general? Or in this thing with us?”
“Yes,” I answered, letting my eyes slide half-closed.
“In general, moving back to London, living with Dad. Leaving Mum in Chicago. Being back here with all my old mates. It’s weird, because in some ways that’s going back in the box, back into an old box that I left behind when I moved to the States. But now I’m back in it, and the box doesn’t quite fit anymore, know what I mean?” He rolled onto his back, reached out an arm toward me. “C’mere.”
I scootched closer to him and hesitantly, gingerly, cautiously—whatever other synonyms there are for am I doing this right?—nestled my head into the crook of his arm…
oh.
Oh.
OH.
OH.
Nooking. It’s…it’s motherfucking magical. That spot right where his chest and bicep and shoulder all sort of merge? It’s an utterly phantasmagorical place. Soft, yet firm. Warm, comforting, and safe. You can dream and drift and just be cozy and held and protected and sheltered there, because it’s the nook. His body beside you is this hulking mountain keeping you hidden away from all the messy life that happens when you have to leave the nook. His arm is around you, under you, and his other hand is free to roam to whichever available bits of anatomy he can find, or he can just cup your hip and hold on and you can slither bonelessly into sleep together.
“As for us…” he continued, and I’d forgotten that part of the question, so when he said “us” my heart leapt into my throat. “Everything. Christ, just…everything. I mean, what it is? Is this going somewhere? Is it just really great sex? What do you want? What do I want? What’s even possible? I don’t know where I’m going to be, and I’ve got to start my new position beginning of next week, which is going to be a shitload of work transitioning and learning their system and what all. And you’re leaving for Oxford in a couple weeks, and what then? I don’t know.”
“I feel like we’ve had this same conversation at least twice, now,” I say, mumbling against his skin, marveling at the casual perfection of the moment.
“This is the third time, I think.”
“Yet we never get anywhere new, do we?”
His laughter rumbled throughout the room. “Not really, no.” His finger circled my shoulder, skipped across my neck and down my spine. “But then, I have gotten you to come, what, six times? Seven? So there’s that.”
“There is that,” I agreed, hiding my blushing face against his muscle.
I didn’t know it was possible, but he somehow felt that blush.
“You’re so cute. You scream and writhe and make all these erotic sounds and you’re so fucking sexy it makes me literally a bit crazy, like you fucking own me sexually, but then you blush when I talk about it?”
“Was I too loud?”
He laughed again. “Seize on the totally wrong thing, why don’t you.”
I loved the way he said the word “totally”, missing an entire syllable: tote-ly, with the ‘t’ sound pronounced as a kind of hardened voiceless glottal fricative—okay, total IPA geek-out. Sorry. Anyway, point is, I can’t allow thoughts like that.
“I make erotic sounds?”
“I could come just listening to you come.”
“That sounds kind of meta.”
“Is it? I don’t know. All I know is, you’re so vocal, and responsive, and…it makes me crazy.” Ian’s finger jumped up the ridges of my spine and slid down the valleys in between, making a slow, torturously arousing journey toward my ass.
“I’m not sure if I should be embarrassed or proud,” I said.
“Well certainly don’t be embarrassed. I mean, have you really listened to yourself? Listened to the noises you make?” I shook my head. “You should.”
“I should?”
He didn’t answer, as he’d already made his point.
I’d just let out a little gasp, a tiny intake of breath, short and sharp and quiet. And yeah, it was erotic; he’d traced his finger down between the globes of my ass. I held my breath as his finger slid back up the crease, paused in the divot of the very apex, and then slid his finger back downward, and this time pressed in just a little. When he repeated the pattern, up, pause, and back down, pressing inward yet further, I couldn’t help a moan of scandalized pleasure.
“See? That was so sexy it made my cock twitch.”
“You’ve proved your point, I think,” I said.
I wasn’t sure I was ready to have another life changing, eye-opening, expectation-shattering sexual experience so soon on the heels of all the others.
“I have, have I?” His voice was gently taunting, skeptical, knowing.
“You have, you have.”
Ian chuckled. “So does that mean I should stop, then?” His finger halted mid-stroke, coincidentally mere centimeters from my rear opening.
Or not so coincidentally, perhaps.
“Stop? No…I—I didn’t say that.” God, I was such a traitor to myself.
I knew exactly what Ian was angling toward. He was dead-set on going after each and every one of my most secret, dirtiest fantasies, the things I’d never ever have asked for or initiated, the things I wanted and was scared of and scared of wanting, the things I only even fantasized about in the depths of my imagination when I drifted off to sleep, the kinds of fantasies you don’t even dare masturbate to.
I think my parents were under the impression that I was the “good one” out of their three daughters. Maria had had a baby at twenty-three, fathered by a migrant farmworker from Venezuela; Luisa had a constant train of boyfriends, most of them deadbeats, some of them emotionally abusive, a lot of them manipulative, and all of them leeched off her. Despite her horrific taste in men, she’d worked at the same law firm for four years, starting as a gopher and working her way up to becoming a paralegal. Then there was me, the baby, the one my parents did their damnedest to keep from suffering the same fates as Maria and Luisa, the one who went to college, and not just college but U of M on an academic scholarship, the one who’d been a good girl, a virgin until nineteen, the one who didn’t party and didn’t bring home an endless string of bad boys and assholes, the one who didn�
�t turn up pregnant without a degree or even a skill set except bartending. I was the good girl. They may not approve of my choice in field of study, but they were sure as hell going to be bragging that their daughter was studying at Oxford.
Yet here I was, three days into my study-abroad trip, in bed with an Englishman, wondering if I had the guts to let him stick his finger in my asshole.
And worse yet, knowing I did, and that I would.
Bad girl. Bad Nina.
I should be spanked.
If I wasn’t breathless with anticipation, I would have giggled at my own joke. But as it was, Ian’s touch was slipping and inching closer and closer. He was giving me time to understand his unspoken intention, giving me plenty of opportunity to demur. His eyes were fixed on mine, and he wasn’t even aware that I’d moved or that he had. But now I was positioned so I was almost on my stomach, his bicep as my pillow, one of his hands resting on the pillow. And his other hand, oh boy. Middle finger dragging back and forth through the crease of my ass, working closer and closer, wiggling in deeper, and I was staring at him, searching his pale intense blue gaze, asking a trillion silent questions.
The only response I got in return from Ian was equally as silent: You know you want this. I know you want this.
And I did.
Curiosity was fire in my veins. Need was pulsing through my body in place of blood. And the craziest, most reckless, most undeniable part of all? I trusted Ian. With my body, at least. So far, everything we’d done had left me a quivering pile of satiated woman.
My fingers curled into fists, one crushed between our bodies, the other underneath the pillow. My breathing stopped, my eyelids refused to blink, my throat closed, my skin tightened and tingled. Every sense was attuned to the moment, heightened and aware. I felt him, felt his heartbeat, felt his heat, the hardness of his body, his arousal against my thigh, the feel of him trailing his fingers through my hair, his scent, clean and musky with previous sex and current pheromones of desire. And that finger, digging in. Pressing against me in the most intimate of places.
I forced myself to suck in oxygen, to swallow. And then I shifted my legs apart, pulled my knees upward a little. Tacit permission, in the form of heightened access.
“Touch yourself, Nina.”
I slipped my left hand down, down, between my thighs. Dug the fingernails of my other hand into the muscle of his chest and let myself whimper as I found my clit with my middle and ring fingers. Oh god, the sound of my voice whimpering was erotic. I sounded breathless and wanton and aroused to the point of no return. What did it say about me that my own moan of desire had my nipples pebbling and hardening? It did, though, regardless of what it said about me. So I whimpered again, a low sound in the back of my throat that turned into a growling groan when Ian finally applied little bit of pressure. And just that slight push had something violent and wild waking deep inside me. A wiggle of his finger, a bit more pressure. I was tensed, I realized. I forced myself to relax, which is easier said than done. Especially when my fingers were swiftly hauling me up the mountain toward orgasm.
A little more pressure and then I felt pressure become intrusion, insertion. A high-pitched sound in the back of my throat, and I pressed my forehead to the pillow, gave in to wanting this. I drew my knees up to my hips, thighs spread wide apart.
“Oh Nina, you like this, don’t you?” Ian’s voice rumbled.
“Yeah…ohhhhh fuck.”
Ian pressed in, and now I felt like I was coming apart at the seams even though I hadn’t climaxed yet, and wasn’t even really all that close yet. His finger was inside me, I wasn’t sure how far, only that I was penetrated, and that it felt good. Dirty, and so good. When he wiggled the finger, not quite moving it in and out, but more in a ghosting hint of motion, a tease of in and out…I made a sound so raw and guttural and erotic and pleading that I didn’t recognize it as coming from me.
But it had.
Low in my throat, a growl. Animalistic, primal. And it was accompanied by a backward thrust of my hips, a rocking move that spoke of need, that said more, MORE!
“Oh fuck me, Nina. You make noises like that and I’m not going to be able to hold myself back.”
“Back? From…from what?” My basic higher functions—like coordinated speech—were short-circuiting, but I managed to garble that much out.
“From fucking you just like this.” He moved his finger in earnest then, and my still-busy fingers had my core aching and heated and on the verge; and then Ian threatened—or promised, depending on how I was looking at it—to fuck me, and I lost it.
I came. Oh hell fuck shit and damn, I came so hard I saw stars, so hard it hurt, so hard my thighs bunched into knots and my pussy clamped down on emptiness and my asshole throbbed around Ian’s finger, and my nipples hardened to aching points, and I—
I screamed past gritted teeth, screamed into the pillow because it would have been audible back in Michigan if I hadn’t muffled it, pushed back into his touch and writhed and circled my clit with my fingers until my hand hurt from the effort.
Ian growled, a feral sound, and I felt him move. “Shit, Nina. I can’t—I want you. I need you.”
“Shut up and do it, Ian,” I whispered. “Take me. However you want.”
He rose up behind me, adjusted the angle of his wrist and I felt his knuckles press into the generous flesh of my ass cheeks, his finger still inside me. I wasn’t sure what I’d just asked him for, what I’d just told him to do, but I didn’t care. I’d take anything. I needed him, needed more, needed the full and overfull feeling of Ian inside me. I ached emptily for him. But not for long. He grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under my stomach, providing support I hadn’t known I needed, and then I felt his tip nudging at my entrance, and I moaned in anticipation. Let out a breathless gasp of relief when he pushed into my pussy, splitting me open, filling me, stretching me. Bare, hot, smooth, slick. I didn’t care, didn’t think about anything but how good he felt inside me, how nothing in my entire life could have prepared me for the world-rocking ecstasy of Ian Stirling fucking me.
And with his finger inside me, I was doubly full. Stuffed to capacity. And now heat built up, raged, an inferno. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t play around. He fit himself into me, flexed his hips to drive his shaft home, and then began fucking me. Slowly, deeply, thoroughly. I moaned in rapturous bliss at each penetration, pushed back into him and groaned with each cramming glide of his thick throbbing cock inside me.
Faster now. Harder.
It registered that he wasn’t wearing protection, and that danger filtered through the haze of my awareness right as he was thrusting toward critical mass.
I needn’t have worried.
He pulled out at the last second, making a hissing growl low in his throat as he did so. And then—I should have expected it, should have known how incredible it would be. He replaced his finger with the very tip of his cock, and pushed. And I, soaring on a double orgasm of wrenching intensity, took him. Not much, but it stretched me in a way I hadn’t known possible, split-open, eyes crossing with delirious fervor.
“Ohhhhhhhh fuck, Nina, Jesus, so fucking tight.” He gripped my hips and held on tight, as if holding himself back. “Okay?”
I tried to nod my head, but I could only jerk clumsily, tightly. “So—oh jesusfuck—yeah, yes.”
“Hurt?”
Did it? Maybe a little. Faintly. Somewhere far beneath the pleasure, buried under an avalanche of ecstasy so deep I didn’t even register that maybe it did hurt just a little. Not enough to want him to stop. Maybe it would later. I didn’t care.
“Does it hurt, Nina? Should I stop?” His voice was sharp, demanding.
Mmmmm. Bossy Ian. Nina like.
“No…no. It’s good.”
“It’s good?” Softer voiced, now, pleased with himself.
SMACK! His hand cracked across my ass, and I shrieked out loud, and then made a sound of wondering, marveling, near-death incredulous pleasure as the sudden spank some
how let him a little deeper into me and I could have died from the searing pleasure.
God, there isn’t a word for the way that felt. Pleasure is so paltry a word. So weak, so inadequate.
“Fuck my ass, Ian,” I heard myself say.
Holy hell, was that me? That raspy, growling, sex-goddess voice?
“Like this?” He thrilled in and out of me, and I hadn’t even known “thrill” could be a verb, but it worked. Thrilled. It was pure intensity. Raw shredding ecstasy. What other words can I find for what he did to me, then?
In and out, ever so subtly. Just enough that I felt it, and I couldn’t have taken any more. I knew I couldn’t, and thank god so did he. I could only grip the sheet in my fist and work my clit with my fingers—suddenly I was aware of my own hand moving between my thighs, of its own accord—and groan and whimper and moan and shriek as Ian fucked me in the ass.
Oh god.
It’s happening.
Out of body experience, much? Oh yeah. I could almost see us, Ian tall and broad on his knees behind me, me on my hands and knees, masturbating as he drove his cock into my asshole, one of his hands on my spine, the other gripping my hipbone for leverage. I could see his face, twisted in concentration, sweating, watching himself move in me.
A climax ripped through me without warning, tearing me apart and sending me spiraling into madness, screaming into the pillow again, ducking forward and shoving back, spasming, grunting.
“Oh—Oh fuck—Nina,” he grunted, grinding slowly, with shallow, shivering strokes, holding back.
I felt him come, then, at the same time I did. I felt him spurt and gush inside me, filling me with heat and wetness. I came, and he came. We were both making incoherent sounds, and I knew only him, only his throbbing climax inside me, only the shuddering of my own orgasm, everything I was spasming and twisting and lit on fire, aching.
When he was finished and I was limp, he carefully pulled out of me and I collapsed forward, twisted onto my back so I could look at him. He knelt there as he’d been, hard muscled, glistening in the darkness, covered in a sheen of sweat. His cock drooped, shrinking, pointing straight forward and dripping come. That should have been gross, but in that moment, it wasn’t.
Big Love Abroad (Big Girls Do It Book 11) Page 11
