Page 72 of Personal Foul
“Hi,” I return, eyes narrowed.
All that does is make him laugh and then kiss me. As he kisses me, he guides me onto the bed, and when I sit and scoot toward the headboard, our lips part. He climbs on with me, kneeling over me to pull out a pillow, fluffing it just right before gesturing for me to lie back.
Instead of immediately pulling off clothes, he lies down next to me, his head propped on one hand, his other hand trailing over my body. “Relax, Spitfire. I’ve got you.”
“I’m relaxed,” I protest.
That makes him chuckle, and he shakes his head as he grins at me. “You’re super tense. You were relaxed earlier during the movie and even while we were kissing on the couch. I was hoping carrying you in here like I did would cut some of the tension for you, but I guess not.” His eyes hold mine. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
Biting my lip, I nod. “Okay.” That’s actually reassuring. I still have the option to say no, and if he’s to be believed, he won’t get mad at me for it.
With his hand on my waist, he turns me toward him and captures my lips again. The kiss is leisurely and luxurious, like we have all the time in the world to just do this.
At first, I’m satisfied with just his kisses—he’s a great kisser after all. But soon enough, I’m craving more. I want him to touch me, to press me into the bed with his body, to grind his dick against me again.
He was hard before. Surely he still is. He can’t have gotten any relief, and while my own arousal diminished slightly from my nerves after we got to his room, kissing has done the trick and relaxed me once more. I’m back at the same level of arousal as when we were on the couch, but with none of the friction.
His hand hasn’t even moved from my waist.
With a sound of frustration in my throat, I take matters into my own hands. Literally.
Tentatively at first—because I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing—I place my hand on his shoulder.
It’s not much in terms of sexual contact, I know, but it seems to encourage him, because he slides his hand around to my back, under my shirt, and presses me against him.
Slowly, I trace the contours of his shoulder and down his chest to his waist, where I use my fingers to inch the fabric of his T-shirt up enough that I can reach his skin.
He shivers, and I jerk back. “Sorry. Sorry, are my fingers cold?”
Chuckling softly, he kisses me again and nips my lower lip. “I like it. It just tickled a little.” Then he presses my hand back to his side, hiking his shirt up more so it’s definitely out of the way, and resumes kissing me.
I explore his skin, pushing gently so he’ll roll onto his back, which he does with a lazy grin, hooking one hand behind his head, his other hand caressing my back still. “I’m yours, Spitfire. Just tell me what you want to do and I’ll do it, okay?”
Somehow that makes me more nervous, actually. On the one hand, I appreciate that he’s letting me call the shots because he’s obviously trying to put me at ease. But what if I do something wrong?
As though he can read my mind, he lets out another soft chuckle. “There are no wrong answers here. If you want me to take my shirt off, I will. If you want me to put on more clothes, I can do that too, though I might have to turn the thermostat down so I don’t get too hot.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “No need for that.”
“Awesome. I like it when you touch me, so feel free to keep doing that if you want.”
Since I’m now propped on my side over him, it puts me in the position of deciding when and for how long we kiss. Or don’t.
As much as I enjoy his kisses, I think I want to explore more. Gently, I trace the strip of skin above his waistband, finding the silky hair below his belly button—a few shades darker than the hair on his head.
He shifts his lower body when I stroke just above his fly, and my eyes find his. He’s watching me intently, those blue eyes bright, a slight smile curving his lips. “Don’t stop on my account,” he murmurs.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I quip back, returning my attention to my explorations.
I was right, though. He’s still hard, his dick tenting the fine fabric of his pants. Biting my lip, I continue stroking the silky hair, debating with myself what to do next.
With a quick glance at Dylan’s face—still watching me avidly—I decide to go for it and slide my hand over his dick, giving it a squeeze.
He gasps, pressing into my hand. “Jesus fuck.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Dylan
