Kane tugs me into a quick walk, pulling me to his room—our room. He shuts the door behind us, locks it, and then turns to face me. His eyes are predatory, and his body is tensed.
“Kane?” I ask, my voice quiet. “Are you all right?”
He prowls toward me, a slow smile spreading. “Oh yeah. Be better in about thirty seconds, though.”
I gulp. “Why? What will happen in thirty seconds?”
“You’re gonna be coming all over my mouth.”
I step backward. “I am very sweaty, Kane. I am sure I do not smell very fresh.”
He follows me, reaching for me. “You all sweaty, in that getup, looking all fit and fucking sexy as hell—babe, I’m so turned it ain’t even funny.”
I find myself catching up against the wall beside the doorway to the bathroom, with nowhere else to retreat, and also I am finding I do not want to retreat any further. I want this, with him. We have not had an opportunity to have sex again, not since that wonderful experience at the camping place in Utah. I am very eager to be with him in this way again. When his eyes light on mine, fierce with need, my gut clenches and my core heats, dampens.
I wait for him.
He grins at me, a dark, dirty baring of his teeth. “Hands to the wall, darlin’.”
“What?” I gulp.
He catches my braid and makes quick work of freeing it, then wraps the length around his fist and tugs my head back, claims my mouth in a short, searing kiss. “Turn around, face the wall, and put your hands on the wall. Just trust me, gorgeous, okay?”
I nod. Turn to face the wall, lift my hands and put them flat on the wall at shoulder height. Kane sidles up behind me, presses his groin to my backside, keeping his fist tight in my hair—kisses the nape of my neck. I shiver, blow out a soft breath of anticipation. He pushes my borrowed sports bra up my back—it catches on my breasts, lifting them, and then releasing; up, over my head, and off. Now topless, breasts bared, nipples peaked, my anticipation ratchets even further. I gasp as I feel his mouth touch my spine between my shoulder blades, then down, and down. I feel him behind me, kneeling now. His hands cradle my hips, his tongue sliding over my skin—waist, small of my back, and then his fingers tug the stretchy material of the shorts down inch by inch, kissing and kissing. I am gasping by this point, fraught with desire for him to cease toying with me and give me what I want, what I know he wants…his mouth on my intimate place.
He teases, still.
Even when the shorts have pooled on the floor at my feet and I am naked for him, his mouth moves oh-so-slowly, kissing and licking, as if the taste of my sweaty, salty flesh is a delicacy, a treat. He licks the cheeks of my bottom, grasping each half globe in a hand, kissing, squeezing. And then his hands wrap around my middle, and his fingers slide down my sex, piercing my seam and filling me. I whimper, not quietly, as his touch takes my dampness and my heat and turns it into an inferno of desire, a riptide of need. I flex into his touch, greedy for the building of pleasure. He continues unhurriedly, fingers sliding into me, withdrawing to circle my clitoris, sliding in again. A slow rhythm he makes of it, turning me wild by incremental degrees, just his fingers. His mouth continues to ply my back with kisses, his other hand toying with my bottom, then skating up to fondle my breasts. One and the other, pinching my nipples, cupping and squeezing, flicking and twisting. And all the while, his fingers slip in and withdraw and circle and drive in.
“Kane, my god, please…give me the orgasm, please, Kane.” I whisper it, barely able to form the words as I shake at the ragged edge of release. I reach back and find his head, his face, attempt to push him down. “I need your mouth, Kane. I need you to eat me out, please. I need it. I need your mouth, my love.”
He growls. “Ask and you shall receive.”
Just like that, he is kneeling between me and the wall, his thumbs prying my sex open, shoulders nudging my thighs wide, my stance apart, and his hungry tongue drives against my clitoris, lapping, tonguing, lips suckling.
It hits me with a rush, an orgasm rising up from deep within me, slamming through me. I cry out, fall forward, forehead to the wall, hips pushing back, and then I grind against his mouth. My hand leaves the wall, cradles against his head, curling into his thick long hair.
“Hand to the wall,” he growls, the words buzzing hot on my sex.
“I want to touch you, please.”
“Hands to the wall.”
I obey, palms flat high overhead, pushing my sex against his mouth. He growls, an animal sound, the growl of a predator devouring its prey. And he devours me indeed, rough, fast, and wild.
I come, and I come.
I cannot even speak for the power of it, can only keen through my teeth, wanting to touch him but struggling to obey, to keep my hands on the wall. Denied touching him makes me come harder, for some reason I do not understand.
It is a furious climax, shaking me until I am weak in the knees and sagging against the wall for support.
“Kane, I need you.”
He rises. “Stay there, just like that.”
“Kane, please. I need to touch you.”
“Not yet. Stay like that for me.”
