I feel beautiful.
It’s priceless.
He kisses my flesh, the small plump mounds of my breasts in the cups of the dress, and his fingers tug down the zipper, and thus loosened, the garment falls to the floor around my feet.
His breath catches. “Why, Jolene—you’re a bold little minx, aren’t you?”
I grin. “A little surprise for you.”
I’m naked. I wasn’t wearing a stitch of undergarments under the dress, which felt like the most daring, exhilarating secret in the world.
He just looks at me, taking in my naked form. “So, so beautiful.”
My eyes prick. “You make me feel beautiful, Wes. I wish I could explain to you how that feels.”
He molds his hands to my shoulders, pulls me against himself. “I can see it in your eyes.” He kisses them, my eyes, tasting my tears. His thumb grazes my lips, and his mouth whispers against mine. “I love you, Jolene Park.”
I laugh around a sob. “God, Wes.”
“That’s not how you say ‘I love you too,’” he teases. “But I’ll take it.”
I laugh again. “I do, though. I love you.” I press my fingertips into his chest, rest my forehead on his chin, steady myself. “I know everyone probably thinks it’s stupid and crazy, but—”
“I don’t care about anyone else, Jo. The only thing that matters is you and me. You feel it, I feel it. ‘Once you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”
I snicker. “Did you just quote Sherlock Holmes at me, sir?”
“I did.”
“Is that your idea of foreplay?” I laugh and pull back to look up into his eyes.
“No,” he murmurs. “But this is.”
He drops to his knees, eyes locked on mine. His hands reach up to cup my butt, and his lips touch my belly just under my navel and then my thigh and the other, and I’m unashamedly eager for this. I bury my fingers in his hair and widen my stance and throw my head back and moan in delight and relief and desire as he kisses his way, slowly, teasingly, to my sex.
I gasp when his tongue flits and slithers against my clit, and I groan when he drags one finger down my seam. I hold his head and my knees quake when he tongues me, and they buckle when his fingers find my opening.
“Wes,” I whimper. “Please.”
He kisses and licks, and his fingers move, and my hips buck. “Already?” he whispers, with a laugh.
“Yeah,” I gasp. “I’ve been—oh god, oh god—I’ve been turned on all day.”
He takes me to the edge, playing my senses and my body like a virtuoso musician, and flings me into orgasm and keeps me there. Even when he has to hold me up, his mouth is relentless in its quest for my pleasure, wringing every shiver and shudder out of me.
And then he scoops me up in his arms and carries me, and I’m gasping and shuddering against his chest, and even though I’m breathless and a puddle of liquid bliss, I feel his body against mine and I’m driven to kiss, to taste. To touch.
He settles me on the bed and hovers over me, and his mouth tastes of me and I’m aroused by that, by my own musk on his lips. He kisses me, and I moan into his mouth and I clutch his manhood.
Stroke and caress him.
He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against mine. “Jo…” There’s nothing else, just my name on his lips.
I release him, and meet his eyes, caress his hair and his ears and his jawline. Press against his shoulders, lifting my hips. “Again? Please?”
He laughs, a rough snarl of aroused amusement. “Greedy girl.”
“Yes, I am.”
