He glanced up at her face, wondering what his own looked like, as he wet his lips. Hers was flushed, but bore not a trace of nerves. Her eyes glimmered, dark and full of intent. Unmistakable want.
“I’ve never had the chance to test out one of these mattresses before,” she said, voice a little rough in a way that sent shockwaves rippling down his back. “How are they?”
He swallowed. “Not bad.” His mind was already full of images, overlapping and heated. But he wanted to be sure…
“Leah.” He watched her eyes dilate; shit, his voice was ragged. “Last time…I was a little…was that–?”
She grinned, a fast, wicked slice of teeth flashing. “Pleasedon’t take this the wrong way, but I really wasn’t expecting you to be that” – she bit her lip – “intense. Or thatgood. I mean…damn.”
He huffed out a breath, lungs tight. “There’s an ego boost.”
“Take the compliment. And don’t worry about me. I’m loving it.”
Okay, then. He nodded. “Alright. Go…” Honestly, he was a little surprised at his own take charge attitude. Jasmine had always been the aggressor in their relationship – though he supposed he picked up on a thing or two along the way. When you stopped worrying about what was expected of you, and started doing what felt good – well, if he was intense, and good, and she loved it, that was all he cared about. “Go open the closet door,” he said. “Please. And then come back.”
Her grin widened, and she made a show of spinning around and walking the short distance to the closet; opening the door. She bent over more than was strictly necessary, offering him a view that left him chuckling. She opened the door – and revealed the full-length mirror hung up on the inside of it.
“Ooh.” She laughed. “Kinky.” When she turned back, she was still grinning, but her flush had deepened, cheeks fever-pink, and he could see the flutter of her pulse in the hollow of her throat. Anticipation not unlike nervousness.
“Come here.”
She did, with slow, prowling steps. He thought it was an act, but a good one. When she reached him, he reached up and caught one of her hands, smoothed his thumb across the back of it.
“You have flowers on your boots,” he said.
“You like?”
“Yeah. Here.” He put his hands on her hips and turned her around, pulled her down to sit in his lap so she faced the mirror. He hooked his chin on her shoulder and looked at their reflection.
Watched his own hands, dark tan against her paler complexion, slide up her stomach and cover her breasts again. He played with her through the silk a moment, until he felt her nipples tighten. Until her breath hitched audibly, and he could see her biting at her lip. Then he drew her bra straps down, and reached back to unclasp it. The white silk fell into her lap, unheeded, and when he cupped her bare breasts, she pressed her hands to the backs of his, encouraging, pushing her chest forward into the touch.
His gaze alternated between the mirror – the sight of his hands shaping her breasts, the white of her knuckles as she urged him on – and down over her shoulder. He could hear the distant thump of the music beyond the dorm, and the occasional muffled sound from next door, but here in the room he could only hear the soft rasp of his calluses against her skin, her quick, needy breaths, and his own pulse, loud as kettledrums in his ears.
He was hard, now, and when she shifted on his lap, he sucked in a breath at the feel of her ass grinding down against him.
His hands slipped lower, gliding down over the soft skin of her belly, so he could unfasten her jeans.
They were all but painted on, but with the fly undone, he had just enough room to dip inside with one hand, duck under sleek white silk and find her already heated and damp for him. His fingertips glided through slick wetness, and he watched her face in the mirror while she shivered in his arms: the way her mouth opened, and her eyes fluttered shut.
He parted her folds and traced her entrance, and her hips bucked forward. She leaned back into him, legs spreading over his thighs, trying to give him better access.
He didn’t have any kind of savvy dirty talk. He resisted the urge to thrust up against her and said, “Feels good?”
“Yes.” Her voice was a heated sigh, and it tightened the coil of mounting pleasure in his gut.
“Look at yourself,” he urged, and her eyes fluttered open. “Look atus.”
It was a simple picture, but shocking all the same, he thought. Her topless, with her legs spread, and her pants open, his hand down inside them; the flex of his wrist and arm, the undulation of her hips; her overcome expression, and her silly flowered boots, drumming against the edge of the mattress as he worked one, and then two fingers inside her.
His cock twitched, looking at them. But another image filled his mind; a better one.
He stood, arm going around her waist so he could hoist her up to her feet. She weighed nothing, and her startled little gasp was all sex, went straight to his cock. Hehadto get out of his jeans – but first…
He worked her jeans down her hips, panties, too, chasing them with his palms along her smooth thighs. Stroked the sharp points of her hipbones, and cupped her sex, its tidy dark curls. She was so wet now; when he slipped a finger back inside her, her slick filled his palm.
She gripped his arm. “You’ve got – oh, God – way too many – mph – clothes on.”
He gave one last firm thrust and withdrew his hand; his fingers glistened in the lamplight and he wanted to taste them, to taste her – to do everything all at once, but mostly mount her like he was a fucking stag, and –
