Page 71 of Hold the Pickle
Still, with my hand beneath her head, I know where her lips are. I lean over her, and the gentle press of my mouth to hers is a revelation, a shower of sparks and lightning bolts and the softness of her kiss.
I keep it there a moment, letting the rush settle so that I can feel her without the distraction of the shock that we’ve come here. To take my time, acting with thoughtfulness and care.
Nadia’s hand moves to my shoulder. Her touch on me kicks off another cascade of intense need, making my vision splotchy behind my lids.
I wonder for a moment why the hormones are flooding so hard with her, more than I’ve ever experienced. But then I simply let them wash over me, and deepen the kiss, learning the taste of her in the night, faintly of toothpaste, but also somebasic essence that is all her, the sum of all the sensory data I’ve learned in the nearly two months we’ve lived together.
I want to touch her, all of her, and it takes conscious effort to wrestle control. Instead, I knead the back of her neck, feeling her muscles relax in my hand, her hair slipping through my fingers.
All the desire for her, starting from that first meeting under the stairs of a courtyard, has built to this moment. I tighten my grip on her, and she does the same on my shoulder. The kiss grows more frantic, our tongues meeting, exploring.
My erection presses painfully against the elastic band of my shorts, and I shift to move it aside.
Nadia moves with me, her body sliding more fully beneath me, so that when I return to my position, my hips press into her belly.
She sucks in a breath, feeling me hard against her. I slow down the kiss, waiting to see what she will do. Is this where she will stomp the brakes? It’s not a bad idea, take our time…
But her body arches to meet mine, increasing the pressure of me against her. My brain whites out a moment, and whatever hesitation I felt disappears into the crash of need.
I leave her lips, pressing my mouth against her jaw, her throat, and finding the slender strap of her pajama top. I release her neck to grasp the bit of fabric and tug it down, tasting the skin of her collarbone and following the line across her shoulder.
She arches again, and I know where she wants me to go. I take my time, easing the shirt down, letting it catch on her nipple.
Then, with a sharp tug, I expose the breast and cover it with my mouth.
She draws in a quick breath, her hand moving to the back of my head to keep me in place.
I’m not leaving anytime soon. Her body is soft and pliable. I encircle the breast and cup it fully, sucking on the tight peak.
She lets out a small cry, wriggling beneath me, pressing upward with her hips to feel me against her.
I’m overcome with another rush and grasp the other breast, sliding over her body more fully to control where my dick slides against her, aiming lower so that I grind between her thighs.
She cries out again, her hands moving to my waist, guiding my body where she wants the pressure. Her body quivers, and I know the tidal wave of chemistry has taken over her, too.
“Dalton,” she breathes, and she doesn’t have to say anything else. I know what she’s after.
I slip a hand inside her pajama shorts and beneath the silky panties below. She’s hot and wet, and slipping fingers inside her is like touching something divine.
She clutches my shoulders. She’s gorgeously responsive, moving with me, telegraphing what she wants, and I give it to her, plunging inside and tweaking the swollen bud of her clit.
“Dalton, Dalton, Dalton, Dalton.” My name on her lips makes me twitch with every repetition. I want inside her, buried in her body, fucking her until she no longer remembers my name.
I return my mouth to her breast, grazing her nipple with my teeth. Her back arches to me, her hips moving rhythmically with every stroke of my fingers inside her.
She’s wet and slick and I revel in every texture, every sound, every twitch of her body. Her breathing speeds up, and I can feel the rapid firing of her heart beneath my cheek.
I pull away to look at her face, wanting to see what this does to her, even in the shadow of the near-dark.
Nadia’s eyes are squeezed shut, her eyebrows drawn together. She sucks in a breath, her white teeth flash, catching the dim light of the kitchen lamp.
Then she tightens around my fingers. Her core muscles contract against my side where we are pressed against each other.
“Dalton!” She draws out the last syllable as tremors overtake her.
Her grip on my arm is a vise. I love every minute of it.
Her voice devolves into a long squeal, then a breathy exhale. With one more clench on my hand, she relaxes, her arms falling to the bed. Her back collapses into place. And I didn’t even get her naked.
