Page 66 of Broken Chords
Reaching around his arms, I shimmy my hips a little and push the dress the rest of the way off, letting it flounce down around my feet with a whoosh of air.
Damian sits back on his heels, his hands still on my hips, my nipples wet and hard and shiny without his mouth on them anymore.
Next I start pushing down the lacy boy shorts I wore tonight, but Damian takes over, his fingers hooking into the elastic fabric and slowly peeling them off. While he’s occupied with my panties, I carefully remove his glasses, then mine, folding them and setting them on the desk next to me.
My panties are now around my ankles. “Step out,” Damian orders, his voice husky, “but leave the heels on.”
My eyebrow quirks up. This is new. But I do as he says.
He smirks at me, his lust-dark eyes clearly visible without the barrier of his glasses. “I like having you a little taller. You can take them off later.”
I nod my agreement, stepping to the side closer to the bed. Damian stands and strips off his clothes, bending over his suitcase and straightening up with a condom packet in hand that he tosses on the bed behind me.
He steps closer, close enough that my breasts graze his chest when I breathe, devouring me with his gaze. His hand skims over my arm, cupping my neck, tipping my head back. When he bends to kiss me, it’s not as far as normal, my heels lifting me just enough that I don’t have to arch back much to feel his body against mine.
Reaching between us, I grip his shaft, giving it a squeeze and a slow pump. He pushes his hips into my hand and deepens our kiss, his fingers gripping my neck to hold me in place. His other hand skims down my back, his fingertips grazing along my spine, up and down, up and down, slowly moving toward my side until I ache for him to touch me somewhere more intimate. My breasts, my buttocks, my inner thighs.Somewhere.
I squeeze him tighter, pressing my chest against his, and he lifts his head, gazing down at me as his hands come to my breasts, gently cupping, squeezing, moving until my nipples are framed by his thumbs and index fingers. He closes them, pinching my nipples, rubbing them, and I arch my back more, offering myself up to him with a gasp. “Yes.”
He lowers to his knees again, his hands never leaving me, and his tongue darts out to flick over my nipples, still trapped between his thumbs and fingers.
As he descends, he places light kisses down my torso, finally releasing my breasts so his hands can slide to my hips. Wordless, he guides me, the same kind of pressure he uses to lead when dancing. And I respond as easily, taking tiny steps back until my legs make contact with the bed, sinking down.
“All the way,” he murmurs. “Lay back.”
I slide my arms behind me, going down on my elbows, then dropping all the way to my back like he asked. His hands slide down my thighs, cupping my legs behind my knees, lifting and spreading them, opening me to him. He nuzzles his way along my thigh until he reaches my center, dragging his nose across the soft skin of my inner thigh, placing a reverent kiss on my mound.
He pauses, his hot breath fanning over the aching apex of my thighs. It’s not until I lift my head and make eye contact that he licks me, long and slow, like the first taste of an ice cream cone on a blazing July day. His eyes hold mine as he does it again. And again.
It’s a slow buildup, and he savors me with each lick.
This. This is what it means for a man to make love to you with his mouth.
His oral skills have improved since the first time, not that he was bad then, but now it’s like all the times before were practice. The oral equivalent of scales and etudes in preparation for the masterpiece. And this. This is his masterpiece.
Soon, I can’t hold my head up anymore. I have to lay back and close my eyes to relish the slow build of arousal, gasping when he spears his tongue inside me then drags it up to my clit where he draws tiny circles. He varies what he’s doing, keeping me writhing, clawing at the plush comforter, digging my heels into his back, my legs now over his shoulders.
His fingers plunge inside me, and he sucks my clit into his mouth, never letting up on the pressure until I shatter with a scream.
His smile is triumphant as he rises over me, propping himself on his arms and lowering his mouth to mine. I cup his cheeks, not wanting to let go of this kiss, needing to feel him around me. He slides his arms under me, holding me against him, and my arms slide around him as well. My legs wrap around his narrow hips, my ankles hooking together to hold him in place. The only thing missing is him filling me.
Slowly, he lays me back down on the bed, his hands sliding along my legs until they come to my ankles, which he disconnects before reaching for the condom. Taking a step back, he tears it open and rolls it on, his eyes still roaming my body.
“Turn over.” It’s that same sexy, commanding voice from before. Normally we have more of a give and take, asking and answering, leading and following each other to find out what we both want, both need.
But this? This is a different side of Damian, where he takes control and doesn’t relinquish it. I like it just as much now as the first time.
I roll over, my hips still on the edge of the bed, so now I’m bent forward.
His hands slide up my back and down again to my ass. I straighten my legs, arching my back, and he lets out an appreciative grunt, the head of his penis sliding between my thighs. He grips my buttocks, pulling them apart for a better view, and lines himself up at my entrance. With my heels on, he only has to bend his knees a little to notch his head against my opening. His hands go to my hips again, and I push back onto him, reclaiming a little control.
He gives a low hum of pleasure and meets my stroke with a thrust of his own, embedding himself all the way inside me. Pulling back, he pushes inside slowly again. And this time I let him set the pace, enjoying letting him have control.
His fingers dig into my hips as he starts moving faster, and I arch more, giving myself over to him completely. That spurs him on, and he bends over me, his chest connecting with my back, his hands sliding down my arms to thread his fingers through mine. We clutch the comforter together as he presses me down, keeping his pace unbearably steady, each thrust pushing me closer to a second orgasm. He pushes up slightly, gaining more leverage, and I pant with pleasure at the change of angle.
“God, I love you, Charlie. Come with me. Please.”
My body can’t refuse his request. I detonate, my fingers tightening around his even more as my whole body shudders with pleasure. He calls out my name, trembling with the power of his own orgasm and collapsing on top of me.
I pull his hand to my mouth, pressing a gentle kiss on the back of it. He releases my other hand, slides his arm beneath me, and rolls us to the side, hugging me to him. His weight anchors me to the bed, just like his presence anchors me to reality. I pull our joined hands across my front, wrapping myself in him, turning my head to brush light kisses against every part of him I can reach—his hand, his arm, his shoulder. I want him to feel—to know to the depths of his soul—how much I love him. I need to anchor those feelings to his body, so that when I finally tell him everything, I’ll be able to remind him of this. These feelings. This reality. So that he won’t doubt the truth of us.
