“I want to show you something,” he says. “If you’ll let me.”
“Yeah,” I say.
We drive out of town and into the foothills. We get out of the car, and he pulls a couple of blankets from the trunk.
“You bring women up here often?” I tease him.
“Wouldn’t be convenient from my New York apartment,” he teases back. “But no. Never brought anyone here.”
“And yet you have blankets in your trunk.”
“Grabbed ’em from Hanna earlier,” he says. “I knew I wanted to bring you here.”
There’s a wide-open area—a meadow by day, I think—and he throws a blanket onto the grass. “Lie down.”
“Usually there’s some foreplay,” I tease, but I obey, and—“Holy shit, Rhys.”
The sky is spread out above us, black and shimmering with stars.
“Not a lot of light pollution out here.”
“It’s—beautiful.”
“I’ve always felt like if you lie still long enough, looking up, you can feel the earth spinning.”
I do as instructed, and I know what he means. Maybe it’s just dizziness from the hugeness of the dome above us—but it does feel like we’re in motion, the earth turning on its axis, whirling around the sun, swirling as part of the galaxy. I feel incredibly small and also huge, part of everything.
He rolls onto his side, and I do the same. His mouth seeks mine, hot in the cool night. We kiss tentatively at first, tasting and exploring, until I bite his lip and he goes suddenly feral, clutching my head to delve into me, slick and hungry. He explores my mouth thoroughly, then moves his lips over the shell of my ear, sending shivers everywhere, down the sensitive line of my jaw, over my throat, to the throbbing pulse at the notch of my collarbones. I’m warm, too warm, and I pull away from him, tug my shirt over my head, and he groans and resumes his travels, his lips and tongue playing over the upper curve of my breast, teasing along the lace line of my bra.
Rhys tugs one cup down and finds my nipple with his tongue, flicks gently over it, traces circles around it. Then the other one, back and forth, while pleasure bites its own line inside me, right down to my core. I’m moaning now, my hips seeking friction, and he pins one hip with his hand so I can’t move, and that’s exactly what I need—I’m half desperate.
He plays at my breasts until I’m wild with hunger, then continues downward, finding the button and zipper of my jeans, easing them down with my panties, breathing my scent and groaning his approval. “Jesus, Eden, you’re delicious. I can’t wait to taste you.”
After removing my jeans entirely, he grabs the other blanket and tugs it over both of us, disappearing from sight as his tongue finds my slit and I jerk against him. It feels so fucking good, the heat and slide of his tongue there, exploring everywhere at first, then homing in on my clit.
He experiments, listening for my moans and whimpers but also “listening” with his hands on my hips for the way I tilt up to get more of his mouth, “listening” with his tongue as my clit gets more swollen and I get wetter. He listens, reads, like he’s known my body for years, and it responds with trust and pleasure, blooming wide open for him, so when he slides two fingers in, I’m all eager welcome.
I’ve pushed the blanket away again so I can watch him, so I can feel the hard bite of night cold on my nipples. The pinch of that cold and the sight of him working me and the feel of his talented mouth and his curled fingers all conspire to wind me up fast, and the orgasm catches me completely off guard, tossing me into the sparkling black sky, and I come whining and begging.
38
Rhys
I’m so hard and ready that when she comes, I have to stop myself from thrusting against the blanket, against the ground, and following her over the edge.
What stops me is knowing that she wants me to, that she wants me to lose control, and I both want to deny her and give her exactly what she wants.
I want to do both, and I want to do them deliberately so she can wring all the pleasure from them that she can.
“God,” she says. “I can barely think.”
“Good. Then I’ve done my job.”
I roll to my side next to her, and we lie like that for a while. She shivers, and we both reach for her clothes at the same time, kneeling and then standing, helping her back into them. I’m sorry to see her cover up. She’s extra pretty in the moonlight, her nipples hard peaks under pink lace, the neat triangle of curls at the apex of her thighs darker than her hair but still blondish. Some of her body’s moisture gleams on her skin, and I slick my finger through it and lick the taste of her off myself, and she shudders again, like an aftershock.
When she’s dressed, she reaches for the button of my jeans.
“You don’t have to do that. None of this is tit for tat.”
