Oz
I run my hands over Gabby’s back, feeling a bit of frustration. There’s just so much fabric in the way. Too much. The dress she’s wearing today is pretty if a little plain – it definitely doesn’t stand up next to the clothes I bought her earlier.
But the main problem I have with it is that it’s on her. Covering her. Stopping my hands from making contact with her skin.
“You know,” I say, my voice low and intimate given how close we are together. I nip at the back of her neck with my lips, making her shudder. “It would be easier to massage you if I could get my hands on your skin.”
“Then,” Gabby says, and I swear my mouth almost waters in anticipation. “Why don’t you put your hands on my skin?”
It takes only a moment for those words to sink in with their full deliciousness, and then I’m tugging at her lightly.
“Sit up,” I say, the words coming out a growl, so eager to have her in front of me. She sits, but the fabric of her dress is still caught under her; she must understand because she gets to her feet with her back to me. I stand, and now there’s barely anything between us, only the smallest breath of air and the fabric of that damn dress.
I reach for her shoulders, running my hands and thumbs over them again while she stands in front of me. The straps of her dress sit on those shoulders, and I skim my fingers under them to slip them down, down, over her arms. Even just the sight of her bare neck is enough to turn me on, especially knowing what comes next. I kiss and nuzzle her skin, the massage almost just a pretense now, an excuse to get my hands on her.
And by the way, her muscles loosen under my touch right anyway, turning to jelly, I don’t think she’s going to complain.
I slide my hands down, letting the straps drop completely from her shoulders. The dress stays up on its own, buoyed by resistance, and balanced on her chest until I grasp the zip at the back and pull it slowly down. It unpeels from her like the skin of an orange, then drops to the floor when I let go, pooling perfectly around her feet.
She gasps lightly as it drops, and I begin to sweep my hand’s palm down across her back, gently massaging each muscle I can find. I lean down to kiss the back of her neck and across her shoulders, and she allows me without resistance, standing still and only gasping and shivering in response to my touches. I’m finely tuned to her, interpreting every motion, every sound, memorizing them. Understanding which parts of her skin are the most sensitive, which will make her cry out, which will make her turn to liquid in my hands.
I work my way along her arms one at a time, kissing her skin, raising goosebumps as my fingers ghost across, finding those sensitive muscle points, and massaging them just so until she gasps and moans. Then down, over her back again, my hands skimming over her sides and around her front to touch her stomach, to glide, to worship every inch of her as my mouth continues its work along her sensitive neck and behind her ears.
Her blonde hair tickles my chest as she sways lightly on her feet, my hands on her front holding her close to me. I realize I’m wearing too many clothes still and strip off my shirt to feel her skin properly, to feel all of her against me. Her skin is hot against mine, and when I lift my hands to glide over the cups of her bra I feel the shudder of desire that moves through her body at the contact.
She leans into me, but I pull away just for one moment to reach for the clasp of her bra and unhook it, letting the fabric fall loose. I repeat the same motion as before with the dress, sliding the straps over her shoulders and down, until the whole thing drops to the ground and leaves her unveiled. I don’t turn her round to look at her, not just yet. I look to the side, to the windows, where I can just make out our reflection. Her breasts stand proudly, pert and waiting, and when I finally set my hands on them we both exhale at the same time in satisfaction.
I keep it light and gentle for now, weighing them in my hands, placing my palms over them to measure how they spill over my fingers. I brush against her nipples, nothing more – no pinching or teasing, not just yet. Just a gentle brush of my fingers and then my palms that, nonetheless, make her arch her back into me and sigh up at the ceiling, like the sound of something coming home for her.
She lets me touch her, move her, strip her down without interruption. She lets me take control. My dick is straining at my pants, aching to be let free. I undo my belt and step out of them and still, she doesn’t move, doesn’t turn. I look up and catch her watching my reflection the same way I watched her, and lean down to kiss her neck with a new passion.
Now there is so little fabric between us, so little to get in the way. But I won’t give in to my urges just yet. I won’t cut off this pleasure, this slow and gentle exploration of her. I drop to my knees behind her, then take hold of her hips to spin her around so she faces me in only her panties.
For a moment, she’s shy again, her hands rushing to cover her breasts. But then she looks at me, at the way I look back at her, and I know she sees nothing but utter worship in my eyes. She drops her hands slowly, letting them hang at her sides, letting me admire her. And I do.
I drop my head, kiss, and nuzzle against her stomach and then lower, breathing in the scent of her. Heady and intoxicating. I may have been here before, but not like this, the dimness of the closet hid her from me more than I would have liked, and there was the rush of the moment, the urgency. I breathe her in now and run my hands up and down her legs, her thighs, massaging and soothing and letting my kisses trail after my fingers.
Finally, I straighten again where I kneel, pushing my fingers under the hem of her panties and sliding them down slowly, so slow. When she gasps I look up to see her eyes closed with anticipation.
I run my hands up over her bare ass, cupping it, kissing the side of her hip bone, her bikini line, down until I taste her.
Then I look up at her, and the only thing I can do is get to my feet.
“I can’t hold off any longer,” I growl, between kisses as I devour and claim her mouth. “Bedroom. Now.”
Chapter Nineteen
Gabby
I couldn’t resist him if I wanted to. And I very much don’t want to. Oz practically lifts me off my feet, still kissing me hungrily and tipping my head back, until the only thing I can do is wrap my legs around his hips and hold onto his shoulders for dear life.
Not that I feel unsafe. With his arms around me, I know I’m secure. He lifts me easily, never pausing in his hungry kisses. Between us, where our hips meet, I can feel the hardness of him pressing into my stomach. It sends something fluttering inside of me, some secret signal that my brain knows how to interpret, switching off all other functions to focus on this one here.
I don’t think I would be able to hold a conversation right now even if I had a gun to my head. At least, not an intelligent one.
I don’t even notice when we step into the bedroom, so wrapped up in him, in everything that is happening to my body. It seems to be going so fast and yet so slow – I was so caught up in the massage of his hands, the gentle caresses he gave me, that I almost didn’t register the loss of each piece of clothing. And yet at the same time, something in my head knew, knew the significance of each piece stripped away from me. It’s heady and confusing and exhilarating and so many other things I don’t know how to name.
I can’t breathe until he releases my mouth for a moment, a moment in which my body yearns for more of him. Screw oxygen. I don’t need oxygen. I need him.
I lift my head up towards him, seeking his mouth, but suddenly it’s even further away. I feel something soft hit my back as the world tilts and I know he’s placed me down on the bed, lifting his body above mine. I’m naked in front of him, and I thought at this moment I would be shy, embarrassed, awkward. But the way he looks at me – the way his eyes worship me, drinking me in like the best view he’s ever seen – takes all of that away. It makes me want him to look more. To look at me always.
But more than that – much more than that – I want his touch.
I think of sitt
ing up, reaching for him, drawing him close to me again. But before I can do that he’s off the bed, standing at the foot of it, and I want to follow him. Instead, I watch, my mouth going dry all of a sudden as he puts his fingers to the waistline of his underwear and hooks it down.
I see him – all of him. From the ridges of his six pack, the curves of his arms, and his thighs, all honed in the gym to perfection, my eyes can only slip and slide down to his cock. I have never seen another man in the flesh like this, but I know enough to know that I must be looking at something above the average size.
It’s a little intimidating, I won’t lie. But also exciting. Because he has the body of a god, of a warrior, all honed and sleek, matching up with the expectations that he gives when you see him in clothes. And he is mine. Maybe not forever, but right now. He is mine. And that means something.
That means everything.
I reach for him wordlessly, hopelessly, my hands closing on air because he’s so far away. But he sees my wordless request and answers it, climbing onto the bed, holding himself over me on his hands and knees. He kisses me deeply, and the whole world disappears around us. All I am, all I know, is this body, and his hand moving down my side, stroking over my skin, setting me on fire.
I can barely stand it. The anticipation, the desire, the urgent need for him. It’s impossible to put into words, and I don’t try. I just kiss him back, then throw my head back and gasp when his mouth moves to my throat, down over my chest, to circle his tongue around my sensitive nipples.
His fingers slip between us, parting my legs again, reaching to stroke lightly across my wetness. I can’t help but gasp and arch my hips up towards him, needing more, needing everything. His hand slips down, a finger probing me at the same time as his thumb circles my most responsive nerves, driving sensations I’ve never felt before as he breaches me. The pressure inside, the pressure outside, all combine to this one startling and thrilling heady pleasure, tingling from my head to my toes.
When his finger withdraws, I almost cry out in anguish, wanting it back right away. But then I open my eyes and see what he’s doing and I can’t catch my breath. He’s holding himself now, shifting his weight, changing his angle above me. Lining himself up to enter me.
I can’t help but watch wide-eyed, lifting my head from the pillow to see. It can’t fit. It won’t fit. Will it? But then I feel it teasing me, rubbing against my entrance, and I know two things, first, that the human body is a wonderful thing that can do more than you expect, and second, that I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I raise my hips to him, whimpering quietly in the back of my throat with need, but he pushes me down.
“Let me. I’ll be gentle,” he says, breathing in, and meeting my eyes just for a moment. He must see that I understand and agree because there’s no way I can make my mouth form the words – but somehow he nods and looks back to the task at hand, and begins to push forward.
It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever felt. A stretching feeling, a kind of pop, and he’s inside, just barely. A flare of pain at the size of his length that quickly vanishes; his hand moves back to where it was, his thumb stroking that bundle of nerves gently, and I don’t even know if he realizes how much it stirs me up when he does that. How much it makes me want to move. To take all of him. An instinctive feeling, born out of genes that know far more about this process than my conscious brain does.
I think he senses my restlessness, my need because he eases forward just a little more. Just as it starts to feel uncomfortable again, to fill me up too much, he stops moving, and all the pressure inside slowly eases off over the seconds until he moves again. I don’t know how he knows, whether he can tell from my face or he is driven by instinct as well, but every time it begins to hurt too much he stops – and every time it feels good he moves again.
Finally, I hear him give a soft moan, and I look down, trying to keep my eyes open long enough to see. I think he’s all the way inside me, his head thrown back just for a moment as mine was before he looks down at me fiercely. Possessively.
Our eyes meet, and I know. In this moment, he owns me. I only had one virginity to give, and he has taken it, and it is his. I am his. For this moment and for all time, there is no changing that. No matter what may happen later, this moment stretches forward for the rest of our lives.
He’s claimed me, and by the primal expression in his eyes, he knows it, and by the way, he fills me so completely, I feel it.
And with a growl, low in his chest, he begins to move again, and it’s so much more than I ever could have imagined.
He pulls out slowly and pushes back in at the same pace, driving a delicious friction that is so new and yet so old I know my bones know it. There’s a strain on his face, in the muscles of his neck standing out against his skin, and at first, I wonder why. But as he moves the friction becomes more pleasurable, the action more comfortable, and I know.
He’s holding back – being gentle for me, just like he said.
“Don’t,” I pant, and he immediately freezes up, which is the opposite of what I wanted. I force my tongue to form the rest of the words, to find them somewhere back in the depths of my overwhelmed brain. “Don’t hold back.”
He moves slowly inside me like he can’t stop moving for anything. “Are you sure?” he asks, studying my face, his eyes drifting back and forth like he’s searching for something.
I might be nervous. Scared, even. This is the first time I’m trying any of this.
But the one thing I’m not is uncertain.
“Yes,” I breathe, and Oz groans in the back of his throat like he can’t take it, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
When they open, he looks at me with something even more fierce, even more primal. He grips my hips with both of his hands and before I can even brace myself, he pulls out and thrusts back in hard, making me gasp, sending vibrations running through all of my nerves that are unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
He doesn’t stop moving then, not for anything. He grabs me in his huge hands, a sensation of safety and possession that somehow heightens everything even more, and thrusts into me with a speed and ferocity that almost unmoors me completely. I grasp hold of the sheets in my hands, feeling them twist in my fingers, desperately trying to hold onto something, anything. My whole body jolts up and down under the force of his thrusts, and underneath all the overwhelming sensations is something else, something growing larger and harder to ignore by the second. A screaming pleasure starting in that cluster of nerves somewhere inside me and spiraling out, filling me just as completely as he does, spreading with each slam of his body against mine, each brush of him inside of me, each time he pulls back out.
It’s so intense I don’t know how to breathe through it. So wild I don’t know how to hold onto my sanity through it. So big, so hard to contain, that I don’t think I can – and it rises up inside of me, taking over like a flood, shattering all of my control, all my boundaries…
I let go with a cry and feel myself soaring somewhere higher than I thought possible, strange currents running through my whole body and making it twitch and jerk on its own, driven by the pure ecstasy radiating through me.
My last thought is that I imagined the thing we did in the closet was amazing. I had no idea just how incredible this could really feel.
Chapter Twenty
Oz
The feeling of her letting go and finding her release tips me over the edge, making me spill myself inside of her. For a long time we simply rest just like that, still entwined and panting for breath, the sweat drying on our skin.
At last, the only thing I can do is pull out and lay beside her, drawing her across the bed to settle her into my arms. This is a different kind of intimacy, our bodies bare and lying close together for no other purpose, just enjoying the glow that lingers around us. I stroke the side of her face with my outstretched finger, studying her eyes.
“Well?” I ask, wanting to hear it from her mouth. I heard it f
rom her body already.
She stirs slightly, looking back at me. “When can we do it again?” she asks, and the unexpected response makes me laugh. I bend my neck to kiss her, full on the mouth but slow and soft.
“Soon,” I tell her. “Really soon. But I don’t want to wear you out too much tonight. We’ll rest a little first.”
“You mean we’ll rest for a few minutes, right?” she says, twisting herself a little in my arms to prop herself up on her elbow. “Not like, we’ll rest until tomorrow?”
I chuckle, tucking her hair back behind her ears, my eyes straying to her lovely breasts. “A few minutes,” I promise. “I should have known at your age, you’d have better stamina than me.”
Her gaze rakes down my body, a raised eyebrow following. “I don’t think age comes into it,” she says. “I think you might have spent more hours at the gym than I’ve been alive for.”
That makes me straight-out laugh, throwing my head back. “Well, at least we’re already laughing at how elderly I am.”
“You’re not elderly,” she says, pouting. She puts out a hand and almost shyly trails a finger across the muscles of my chest. “I think you just proved that.”
I study her for a moment. “It doesn’t bother you, does it?” I ask. It’s more of a statement of recognition than a real question. Ever since I realized she wanted me back, it hasn’t seemed to be on her mind at all that I’m so much older than her.
“No,” she says, bluntly, shrugging her shoulders. “Maybe it should, but I don’t care. You’re… you don’t act like you’re old. Not, like, old. And, I don’t know. Maybe I don’t act like people my age either. Sometimes I find them irritating.”
I smile lightly, thinking about it. “You might be right, there,” I say. “So, if you’re old before your time and I’m still youthful despite my years, maybe we’re not so far apart after all.”
Love In London: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance Page 8