Before she can respond, I lift her onto the counter, step between her knees, and claim her mouth again. This time, when my hands slide under her sweater to find warm, soft skin, she doesn't tense or pull away. She melts into me, her own handsexploring the muscles of my chest and shoulders like she's been wanting to touch me forever.
Her skin is fucking soft. Like velvet over the finest silk, with a current of heat under every inch. My hands, which have spent decades manhandling the cold steel of handcuffs and the grit of the mountain, feel too rough, too big for her. But she doesn't flinch. She arches into my palms like she wants to be marked by them.
The sweater's first. I push it up, bunching the fabric under her ribs. She pulls it off the rest of the way and tosses it somewhere behind her, never breaking eye contact. Her bra is green, lacy, and the moment I see it, my cock throbs so hard it almost hurts. Every inch of her is trembling, but she doesn't look away. Doesn't hide. Just sits on the counter, knees wide, waiting for whatever comes next.
"Jesus, Lisa," I murmur, letting my gaze rake over her. "You're fucking beautiful."
Her breath shudders out, lips parted, eyes dark and wild. "So are you. Please?—"
That's all I need. I catch her mouth in another kiss, greedy and hungry, then start to work my way down. I take my time. She's waited long enough, and if it kills me, I'm going to give her every second. My hands slide to her back, tracing the line of her spine, and I find the clasp. One flick, and the bra is loose. I pull it away and toss it somewhere behind me.
Her breasts are perfect. High and round, nipples already hard and flushed the color of strawberries. I palm them both, kneading gently, and she moans.Fuck, that sound.I roll one nipple between my thumb and forefinger, tugging it until she gasps, then switch and give the other the same attention.
Her hands are in my hair, nails scraping my scalp, pulling me closer. She's got her head thrown back against the kitchen cupboards, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a perfect "O."
"God, Sawyer," she whimpers, "please, more."
Fuck, yes. I lower my head and take one nipple in my mouth, flicking it with my tongue, then biting it just hard enough to make her jerk against me. She whimpers again, and her thighs clamp around my waist.
"Is this what you want?" I ask against her skin, voice low and dark.
"Yes, yes." She's panting, half-wild, grinding her hips into my stomach. "Please don't stop."
I don't. I feast on her, switching from one nipple to the other, licking, sucking, biting, worshipping every inch. My free hand slides up her thigh until I reach the waistband of her shorts. She's already squirming, trying to get closer, so I peel them off one slow inch at a time.
She's wet. I haven't even touched her where she needs it, and I can smell the sweetness of her arousal. My cock is straining against my boxers beneath my sweats, but I ignore it. This is for her. It's always been for her.
When I finally slide my hand between her thighs, and over the green lace of her panties, fingers tracing the fabric, she moans like she’s about to shatter.
"You’re soaked,” I growl, and grip her cunt hard enough that my fingers nearly sink through the sodden cotton. Lisa’s body bows, her hips canting for more pressure, and I oblige by pinning her against the counter with one hand while I cup her pussy with the other. I rub slow, brutal circles with my palm with enough friction to make her gasp, not enough to let her tip over the edge.
She’s so fucking responsive it drives me out of my goddamn mind.
I pull my hand back and slap her pussy lightly, right where her clit is swollen and pushing at the lace. The sound is obscene in the quiet kitchen, the sharp wet slap of it. She yelps, then givesa low, urgent whimper, her hands clawing at my shoulders for something to anchor her.
"Fuck, Lisa," I murmur, rubbing the sore spot with my thumb, soothing her, then smacking her again, harder this time. "Love how needy your pussy is. Bet you soaked through these panties the second I touched you."
A whine punches out of her and her thighs tremble around my waist.
"More," she pleads, voice barely more than a ragged exhale.
I shove the lace aside and stroke my bare fingers over her, two of them sliding through her slick heat. She’s so wet I can’t help myself, I need to taste her.
"Stay," I order, and she nods frantically, still perched on the edge of the counter.
I drop to my knees, hauling her closer, her legs thrown wide over my shoulders and her perfect ass braced on the butcher block. I bury my face in her, inhaling her, and drag my tongue up the seam of her cunt, flattening it over her clit. She rocks against my mouth, cursing, and I lock my arms around her thighs so she can’t get away.
I eat her through the fabric first, mouthing at her, biting, sucking. I want her sensitive, want her wild. When she’s sobbing in my hair, begging for more, I hook my fingers into each side of her panties and yank them off. The band pops free from her hips and I shove them down her legs, then bare her to the cold air and my hungry mouth.
I don’t go for her clit right away. I lick a stripe from her dripping hole all the way to the bundle of nerves at the top, teasing, barely brushing her, then blowing gently so she feels every molecule of air.
"Show me how you pleasure yourself," I say, drawing back enough to see her face, her eyes wide and glassy and dark. "Show me what you do when you’ve thought about me over the years."
There’s not a doubt in my mind that she’s thought about me just as I have her, but I leave the ball in her court.
She blinks, startled, then her cheeks flush even darker. But I see the flicker of curiosity, the flash of challenge, and she does exactly what I asked. Her hand travels to her mouth, licking two fingers, then sliding down her belly, over the curve of her hip, until she’s right there, eagle spread, touching her clit with me between her thighs.
"Fuck me," I growl, as I watch her take the other hand to squeeze her breasts.
