He starts the kiss slowly, this time, gradually building the intensity of it, feeding my hunger for his tongue on mine and his breath and his lips until I’m ravenous and greedy, and then, as our kiss crescendos in a clash of mouths and moans, he uses his free hand—up until now clinging to the small of my back to press me against him into the kiss—to grasp a handful of my dress and tug.
The scarlet fabric pools on the floor around my feet, and my heart slams in my chest—I haven’t stood in nothing but undergarments in front of any man for so long—and especially not one like Jesse. It’s a thrill, and utterly terrifying. I know he finds me attractive—I don’t doubt that. It’s my own fears and insecurities at play, and I argue them, combat them, try to hold on to the desire and the need and the wild abandon, cling to the ever-fleeting confidence to stand as I am and let Jesse look without flinching from his gaze.
And indeed, he releases me and steps back three paces.
It requires an effort of will—my nerves crashing and fear slamming in my blood and in my gut, doubts preying on me—to stand tall, shoulders back, head up, as he gazes at me.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “Is that what you were wearing when you flashed me as I was backing out the other day?
I nod. “Yes.”
He rakes his hand through his hair. “Perfect.”
I offer a hesitant, shy smile. “Better be careful, Jesse. You keep saying that, I might just start believing it.” I indicate his body with a sweep of my finger. “You’re pretty damn perfect yourself, you know.”
He steps toward me in a predatory swagger, mouth curling up in a hot grin. “Good. Then I’ll say it every time I look at you until you do. Because you are. You’re perfect.” His hands slide over the small of my back, trace the underside of my bra strap, and follow the circle of my thong’s waistband. “But you’d be even more perfect if we took these off.”
Oh god, oh god. I swallow hard, fighting desperately for the confidence to let him strip me naked, right here, in the brightly lit kitchen, with open windows all around.
The last several times I was naked with a man, the lights were off, the blinds were closed, and the entire process lasted less than five minutes from start to finish, leaving me vulnerable and frustrated and alone as he rolled over and went to sleep. Last several times? Try every time for several years. I don’t remember the last time I stood confident in my nudity for a man.
He senses something. “You okay?”
I nod, but have to blink and swallow and work past the lump of fear and doubt. “Just…nervous.”
He pulls me against him, his palms on my back. “Don’t lie to me, Imogen.”
“Fine. I’m terrified.” I meet his gaze, my eyes stinging. “I want this—I want you. I want everything—that hasn’t changed in the slightest. I want it all more than ever. But…”
“What do you need?” he asks.
“Can we go to your room? And maybe…turn the lights off?”
He frowns. “Imogen…Jesus. That bastard really did a number on you, didn’t he?” He shakes his head. “I’m not letting you hide. I’m not letting you give doubt and fear the win.”
“Easier said than done. When things are hot and heavy and I don’t have time to think, I’m fine,” I tell him, allowing brutal honesty to emerge. “And I have moments where I feel bold and beautiful and even sexy. But then other times, I just…I doubt myself. I don’t doubt that you’re attracted to me, or even that you think I’m perfect, somehow. It’s not you I doubt, it’s me. It’s hard to know who I am, now. After everything that’s happened, I’m not the woman I was. I’m someone else, and I don’t know who that is. I want to be someone bold and strong, I want to be confident and I want to take what I want. But it’s hard. I’m trying, but it’s so hard. And you’re so effortlessly cool and handsome and confident and strong, and you say such incredible things, and the way you touch me is magical. And I just…it’s all so mixed up.”
He cups my face and tilts it up. “Can you do something for me?”
“What?”
“Show me the photo you sent me.”
My purse is on the counter beside his phone, keys, and wallet—I don’t even remember bringing it in or putting it down, but there it is. I get my phone and bring up the photo. On either side of it in the photo feed are some of the other photos I took that I didn’t delete and didn’t send.
I hand him the phone. “You can swipe both ways. There are a couple others I didn’t send you. They’re unedited and not super great, but—”
He touches my lips with a finger to shut me up, and I’m thankful, because I’m nervous letting him see those, and I would have kept babbling. He swipes through the photos, taking time to carefully scrutinize each one. He shows me the screen: it’s one of the ones I didn’t send, but nearly did. I’m on my back, left arm curled under and around my breasts to squeeze them together and prop them up, with the phone held up and out to the side to capture almost all of my body—my legs are crossed at the thighs and my hips are twisted away to shield my core from the camera. The only reason I didn’t send that one was because the angle of my turned-aside thigh reveals an unflattering amount of stretch marks and cellulite.
“Why the hell didn’t you send me this?” he demands. It’s almost comical how legitimately offended he sounds.
I gesture at the offending area on the photograph. “Because of this.”
He snorts in derision, shaking his head. “That’s bullshit.”
I frown. “I can’t change how I feel about myself just by wanting to, Jesse.”
He backs away from me. “Stand there, just like that.”
“What are you doing?” I demand, reaching for my phone.
He holds it up, pointing at me with the other hand. “Stand there like you were. Please?”
Reluctantly, I comply, crossing one arm under my breasts, the other reaching up to toy with a lock of my hair. One foot is crossed over the other, my sparkly gold heels still on, and I’m leaning a hip against the edge of the counter. He snaps a few photos, and then glances at me again.
“Now, turn around. Please.”
I panic. “No, no. Jesse—come on.”
He just grins. “I’m proving a point. If you don’t like the photos, you delete them.”
I sigh shakily and then, with a nervous duck of my head, I turn around. “Take your picture and be done.”
He laughs. “Oh no, not so fast. Stand upright, and look at me over your shoulder.”
In order to do so, I have to shift my weight to one side, popping my hip out. But what do I do with my hands?
Jesse has the answer. “Put your middle fingers along the creases of the underside of your butt, like you’re trying to lift it up. You’re framing it, sort of.”
I snort. “You’ve done this before, sleazeball.”
He chortles. “No, I haven’t actually. Swear to god.” He winks at me. “I just have a great subject in this case, so it makes it easy.”
I do what he says, and as he snaps a photo, I find myself adjusting the pose a little, flexing my buttocks and actually lifting them a little, tossing my hair just so, and actually smiling at him as he snaps another few photos.
He sidles up behind me, brings the phone around in front of me, and, swiping back to the beginning of the series, and shows them to me. “See? Look how sexy you are in these.”
I swipe through, and damn if I don’t actually look pretty damn good. The red lingerie compliments my tan skin and brown hair, and my body actually looks…
Sexy.
I smile at him. “You’re just a good photographer,” I say, still not quite willing to give it up, for some stupid reason.
He just shakes his head. “You couldn’t take a bad picture if you tried.”
I laugh. “You haven’t seen me first thing in the morning.”
His grin is fierce. “Not yet, I haven’t. But I plan to.”
Heat boils through me. “What if I’m ugly and have bad breath?
”
“You’re never ugly, and I have mouthwash.” He sets the phone on the counter, and now he’s towering behind me, his arms imprisoning me between them. “I want to take a few more pictures of you, if you’ll let me.”
I sigh. “I get the point, Jesse.” I tap the phone screen. “I actually do look pretty good in those.”
His hands skate down the sides of my hips, and then upward, grazing my belly and coming to a halt just beneath my breasts. “Trust me,” he murmurs.
I want his hands to go upward, but instead, I whisper my acquiescence. “Okay.” I straighten my spine and summon my courage. “How do you want me, Mr. Photographer?”
He chuckles, a sound that manages to convey amusement and arousal at the same time. “How do I want you?” He puts his lips to my ear, whispering, “I want you on your hands and knees in my bed. I want you above me, those big beautiful tits bouncing in my face. I want your thighs wrapped around my face. I want you bent over this counter, screaming my name.”
I whimper, leaning back against him. “I like the sound of all of that.”
He slides his palms up over the cups hiding my breasts. “I’ve been dreaming of these night and day.”
“Well, there they are,” I murmur, in a fit of wild originality.
He touches his lips to my nape, and his fingers dance and traipse around to my back. With a flick of his fingers, he unhooks my bra, and then his hand slides smoothly up the bare skin where the strap used to be—up to my shoulders, brushing the straps away. I clutch the cups in place for a moment, and then let my arms fall to my sides before reaching up and behind me to grasp at him, at his hair, his beard.
My bra topples to the counter with a soft thud. Jesse’s hands spread across my stomach and then, once more, carve upward. I catch my breath, and my lip between my teeth, as his big strong hands finally, at long last, alight beneath my breasts.
Hesitantly, reverently, he cups their weight, lifting them, caressing them. He moans against the back of my neck, and I feel his erection against my buttocks, throbbing hard and thick behind his underwear. I have my hands bunched in his hair, my head tilted back to rest on his shoulder. He spends several long moments just playing with my breasts, cupping and kneading, thumbing my nipples until I’m gasping and flinching.
And then, without warning, he lets them go. I open my eyes to see him with my phone in hand, swiping from the lock screen to activate my camera. Standing behind me, he holds the camera away facing us, and snaps a photo of us like this. He taps the thumbnail and we see the photograph: he’s huge behind me, his chest broad and his tattooed arms vanishing behind the camera angle, his hair a wild mane of black, his eyes merry and hot and aroused. I look sensual, erotic—my hair is loose and still curly, my eyes smoky, lips red, skin tan, and my breasts are firm and round, my nipples thick and tall from his attention.
It is possibly the hottest photo I’ve ever seen—and it’s of me. Of us.
I’m about to comment on this when he tosses the phone onto the counter. “I can’t wait any longer,” he growls.
There’s no time to wonder what he means—he slides to a crouch behind me, fingers hooking into the waistband of my thong. His lips touch the small of my back, and then the upper bell of my left hip, and I’m breathless from his kiss, from the touch of his lips to my flesh. His lips kiss downward to the waistband of my thong, and as he kisses along it, he tugs it lower and lower, following its descent with his lips, from one side of my buttocks to the other. I grip the counter and endure his kisses, gasping now and then. I can’t even gasp when, finally, he tugs them past the swell of my ass so they tumble to the floor at my feet. And, just like that, I’m naked.
But he’s not done.
His mouth continues to lave kisses over my thighs and buttocks, while his hands curl around my legs and inch upward, his fingers dancing along the insides of my thighs. Up and up and up his hands dare, and my lungs contract until I’m dizzy and have to suck in air. My breath is shot right back out of me the next instant, though, when his fingers dance up to the juncture of my thighs, and pause.
“Jesse?”
He murmurs in response, a wordless answer to my inarticulate question. My core trembles, soaked and slippery with desire, as his touch inches nearer. I clutch the counter with a white-fingered grip, barely breathing. His teeth sink into my left buttock, nipping sharply, eliciting a shriek from me—the shriek morphs into a drawn-out moan as he traces my seam with a fingertip. There’s not the gradual intrusion as in the parking lot; this time, he sweeps his finger up my opening once, and then presses two fingers to the hypersensitive nub of nerves at the apex of my core. It hardens at his touch, begging for attention; two slow circles of his fingers, and I’m gasping. Three, four, five—faster and faster, and I’m shaking, knees quaking, hips helplessly flexing. Two fingers, and he has me undulating on the edge of orgasm faster than I’ve ever gotten there in my life, even on my own. His other hand cups my breasts, one and then the other and then both, playing with them and caressing. As I start to move into his touch, he starts to play with my nipples, flicking them, pinching, twisting, thumbing, until I’m a writhing, seething mess of dripping arousal, moaning and whimpering and utterly desperate for the edge to come so I can topple eagerly over it.
But when I’m moments from reaching the cusp of climax, he stops, grabs me by the hips, and spins me around. It’s an abrupt, rough maneuver that leaves me gasping and dizzy, my breasts jiggling from the movement.
“Jesse, I—please, don’t stop now. I was so close!” My voice cracks into a whisper at the end.
He just smirks up at me. “You think I’d leave you like this?”
“I don’t—I don’t know.”
He palms my ass and pulls me closer, shifting to his knees on the floor, gazing up at me. I knot my hand in his hair as he leans closer to me, as I realize his intent. Oh god, please, please, please—it’s been so long since I’ve gotten that, and I want it so badly, I want to feel his tongue and his beard and his—
Thoughts fly out of my head as he kisses my core—a true kiss. And another kiss, and another, each one hotter, each one more passionate, and then the kisses turn into his tongue slathering against my seam and slipping between my lips and finding my hardened center. I cry out, a sobbing moan of pure ecstasy as he laves tonguing kisses over every inch of my core. I writhe against his mouth, sagging back against the counter, groaning gasps and crying and sobbing as he worships me with his mouth.
He growls in that feral, utterly masculine way of his as he works me to climax. When I reach the edge, I can’t help but scream. I’ve never felt anything like this in my life, never known this intensity, this wondrous, pure, fiery perfection. He licks and laps and kisses until I’m weak in the knees and openly crying from equal parts relief and ecstasy and wonder.
And then, when I can handle no more, I have to push his face away. “Stop…” I whimper. “I can’t—no more.”
He kneels before me, gazing up at me between the pendulous globes of my breasts, my essence beaded in his beard. “You’re a goddess, Imogen.”
And then he rises gracefully to his feet, hooks his hands under my thighs and lifts me into the air. Instinctively, I wrap my legs around him, and his hands cup my ass to support my weight.
I cling to him as he walks with me to the stairs near the front door, and I can’t help but kiss his forehead and his cheeks and his neck as he carries me effortlessly up the stairs.
His bedroom is at the top of the stairs, but I see nothing of it, only the retreating view of the stairs as he carries me into his room and to his bed. He stands at the foot his bed, holding me up, my legs tangled around his waist, gazing into my eyes for a long moment.
And then he bends over, laying me on the soft, downy comforter. I’m surrounded by softness and warmth, and he’s above me, a beautiful, powerful, attentive, incredible man who just gave me the most stunning, breathtaking orgasm of my life.
“I need more of you, Imogen,” he say
s.
I’m spread naked beneath him, every part of me bare to him, offered up to him. He’s tasted me, felt me come. He’s touched every inch of my body.
Yet he still wants more?
I reach for him, and this time, he lets me.
Chapter 13
His hands hang at his sides, loosely clenched, and his breathing is slow and even, as if he hadn’t just carried me up a flight of stairs. When I sit up and reach for him, his lips curl into a grin. His erection tents the front of his underwear. I lick my lips in anticipation of seeing all of him, which for some reason makes him snort a laugh.
“What?” I ask, my fingers hooked in the waistband. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No, never. I just didn’t realize it was possible until just now that someone could be adorable and erotic at the same time.”
“Adorable?”
He nods. “The way you licked your lips? It was just…adorable. And erotic.”
“I’ll take adorable and erotic.”
“I’ll take you,” he growls.
“Didn’t you just do that?” I tease.
He shakes his head. “That was just…a preview.”
If that was a preview, I can’t wait to find out what the full program will do to me.
I’m stalling.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, my fingers hooked in his underwear, I let out a slow breath and glance up at him. He just smiles at me and briefly toys with my breasts, as if he just can’t help himself.
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