Stripped (25 page)

And then I’m on my back suddenly, and he’s above me, and this is home as I’ve never experienced home before. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss, and we’re lost for a timeless moment. But it doesn’t last, because he’s pulling away. I tangle my fingers in his hair as he kisses my throat, the hollow of my neck. The rising slope of my right breast, around the areola, the puckered flesh, and then my nipple is in his mouth and there’s a sharp tug between my thighs, a burning pressure. His hand smooths over my belly, over my thighs. I willingly part my legs for his touch, sinfully and wantonly spread my thighs wide as his fingers delve deep. Then his touch is slicking into my cleft and the tug is a hot jerking inside me, ropes of nerves being twisted and pulled and braided by the rhythmic, searching sweep of his fingers inside me. My hips lift high off the bed as he brings me to the cusp of explosion and then slows his touch and lets me agonizingly back down, but the pressure doesn’t relent, only builds into a weight that I cannot bear. He doesn’t offer me relief and I don’t know the language to ask him for it, because all speech has been stolen away.
 

I have an identity in this moment, in this time: his touch. My climaxing eruption is who I am. His mouth on my breasts and his fingers inside me are who I am.

And then, and then…his kisses move down my breastbone and down farther, over my belly, then a tongue over my slick-smooth mound. I’m shaking my head no, no, but of course I don’t mean actually no, I just mean to ask if he’s really going to do that…and he does. His lips touch my cleft, and I shudder. It’s a kiss of hesitant questing. I lift my hips in a silent encouragement. I’m lost to this experience, and I want everything he can give me.

He looks up at me, the question in his eyes. He doesn’t want me to feel rushed.
 

I have no shame left. “Please…please yes.” My words are inaudible and gasped, but he hears them.

He takes my ankles and drapes my knees over his shoulders, lifts me by the bottom and, with no warning whatsoever, spears his tongue into me. I clutch the bedding with a noise somewhere between a whimper and a cry and a shriek and a moan. Instead of the bedding, I decide to clutch him. My hands tangle in his hair and tug, curl into his dark locks and hold on as he uses his thumbs to spread my lips apart and he kisses me deep inside. It is a kiss, too. His lips move over my slick inner parts, and his tongue explores me, just like the way he kisses my mouth.
 

There has never in life been pleasure this intense before. Not ever. I alone know the meaning of true heavenly bliss.

I don’t try to hide or muffle the embarrassing sounds coming from me. In fact, as his lips suckle me, I begin to find my own noises arousing. I’m totally abandoned to this. I have no reason for control any longer, and I’m completely at his mercy. I let myself moan as loud as my voice will go, and for as much as I moan, Dawson redoubles the intensity of his oral attention. The more erotic my moans, the more wildly his tongue spears into me; the more I allow myself to cry out his name, the more swiftly he suckles and circles with his tongue, and now I’m all noise and thrashing hips.
 

I lock my legs around his head and keep him coiled against me, and now his fingers are slipping into me, too, two fingers into my cleft, delving in and sliding out, and that move from empty to full to empty makes me whine high in my throat, so he does it again, but more fully, and I throw my head back and arch my spine and I shatter beneath him, scream and gasp for breath and then scream again as wave after wave of orgasm hits me. I have no ability to stop the way I move against his mouth and buck my hips into his spearing tongue, and indeed his hands urge me onward and upward, not relenting when the orgasm hits, but pushing me beyond it into helpless breathless frozen ecstasy of fire released.
 

And then I’m coming back down and dizzy, and I moan in desperation as he moves away from me, off me, and I hear something crinkle. I crack my eyes open to watch him roll something thin and clear onto his erection. I know what’s next, a moment of fear, but then I have no time for it take hold because Dawson is back with me, kissing me.

I taste myself on his mouth and tongue, vaguely salty tangy and decidedly feminine musk, the smell of me as a taste. His kiss is desperate, and I know he’s preparing himself for me to freak out. It’s there inside me, the panic, but I deny it. I kiss him and revel in the weight of his body against me, and the strength of his arms around me, and I know I want this. I kiss him with everything I have, and I curl one hand around the back of his neck.

“Grey, you don’t…we don’t have to, if you’re not ready.”
 

“I’ll never be ready. But I’ve never wanted anything more.” But I owe him all the truth inside me. “But I’m going to freak out at some point. I know I am. I’m lost in you, lost in this, in us, but I’m going to flip out. You should know that. But you also have to know that I
do
want this. So much. Please, do this with me.”

His belly is hard and warm against my stomach, and I feel the tip of him at the inside of my thigh, huge and hard. His arms are strong and now-familiar bars at either side of my face. His eyes search me.
 

I put my lips to his, and I let him taste the words as I say them: “I love you, Dawson.” I feel him swell, see his eyes fill with emotion, feel his chest expand, and even his erection grows harder and thicker against me.
 

“Grey…I love you. God, I love you.”
 

I have to ask him. I have to say the words. “Make love to me, Dawson. Please, make love to me.”

“With all my heart, yes.” But he doesn’t push into me.
 

Instead, he reaches down between us and finds my sweet spot with his fingers, finds my breast with his mouth and he patiently, slowly brings me to writhing, breathless arousal. When I reach the cusp of orgasm, he kisses me, and I open my eyes to stare into his every-colored eyes. He doesn’t slow his fingers on my pleasure-center; he nudges at my vagina with the tip of his erection. It’s just a slight pressure at first, just the very smallest part of him inside me, and I let my legs fall apart because otherwise I’ll clamp them shut. I am panicking a little. My heart is pounding with as much fear as pleasure, and he knows it, because he lets me fall away from the edge of orgasm, and he slides in a little farther, letting me feel the stretch of him filling me, and I gasp and tears start at the corners of my eyes, because he’s so
huge
inside me, filling me past my ability to take it.
 

But I do take it and he stills, and I begin to need the fullness, begin to understand how much I’m going love this, but there’s pain in the way, so I don’t yet love it, but I
will
. And then he speeds his fingers inside me and nips sharply at my breast with his teeth and brings me to the furious edge of orgasm, and this time he keeps going, sliding a little deeper with each circle of his fingers, and then I’m bursting apart and gasping and moaning, and Dawson’s eyes lock onto me, silently pleading with me to watch his eyes, hold the gaze, so I do, and he thrusts once, hard, and there’s an instant of blinding pain, but it’s buried under a tsunami of starbursts, pleasure laced with pain. He stays buried deep, fingers and mouth giving me pleasure as the throbbing pain subsides. And then I’m completely filled by him. He’s in me. Hips to hips, mouth to mouth. Our fingers entangle, rest by my face. Our tongues taste tongue and lips and teeth, and he’s
huge
inside me, stretching me to pinching pain that bleeds into pleasure.
 

And then…he moves. He slowly slides out of me, and I’m empty and lost without that fullness. I bury my face into the column of his neck, feeling his pulse on my eyelashes. He glides back into me in infinitesimally slow motion, and I clutch and scrabble at his backside, because the bliss that suffuses me is heaven, beyond heaven, it’s pure wonder, everything that’s good in the universe exploding inside me. It’s the presence of love welling up inside me.

I’m crying, but I’m smiling, and he sees that, and he kisses the tears, kisses my cheekbones and my eyelids and my chin and my mouth and my neck, and all the while he’s drawing out, and pushing in. But slowly. So slowly. So gently. Lovingly. A sinuous, gentle glide in, breaking every notion of fullness with every in-stroke. And then out, and I’m whimpering at that loss, but it makes the flush of his erection back into me so much better.
 

I’m arched, spine bowed, and then I lift my backside and my hips to meet his, and I untangle one hand to claw my fingernails down his back and clutch his backside as he slides in, and I’m making a sound that has no one single word. It’s a screaming gasping breathing erotic moan of his name.

“
Dawson
…”

I repeat it with every swell of his shaft into me. I want to have the words to tell him how this feels, how much I love this, how perfect this is, but I don’t have them. All I can do is try to communicate it with my whimpers and groans, with my whispered utterances of his name.
 

He continues his glacially slow pace, but he lifts up on one elbow and brushes the tangles of hair from my eyes. “Ride me,” he says.

“What?” I can barely speak even that one-syllable word clearly.

“I want you on top. Ride me. Take your pleasure. Let go.”

I open my mouth to speak, because I’d like a moment to think about it. I like him being in control. I like being able to delve into him and not think or do or anything but feel. But he rolls with me, buried deep inside me, and now I’m straddling him, clinging to his chest, face against his neck, clutching him fearfully as if afraid of falling from a great height. He stills, and I’m full of him, but I need the slide, the motion. I meet his gaze.

“Find where you are in this,” he says. “I took you past the scary part, right? And now I want you to take, rather than give.”

He brushes my hair away, buries his fingers into the roots of my hair just behind my left ear, the other hand resting on my hip. I sit up gradually, slowly, until my legs are bent at the knee, doubled so my calves are nearly parallel to my thighs. I find my balance, sway and steady myself with my palms on his chest. Our eyes are locked, and his hands caress the line of my ribs, a thumb under my breast and then across my nipples, back down to grasp my hips, then he begins a circuit all over again.
 

At first I try a simple rocking motion with my hips. I gasp and close my eyes, then do it again. And again, and my gasp turns to an open-mouthed moan. Dawson doesn’t move, just holds my hips and watches me. I lean forward and lift with my hips and core, drawing him almost all the way out, pause with him poised tip in the folds of my cleft, and then bury him deep in a long, fast stroke. I groan loudly, eyes clenching closed and mouth falling open, gasping for breath, and then I draw him out again, nearly out, pause, and impale myself onto him.

And then I try something else. I want to feel everything. I lift with my core and hips so he slips partway out, and then sink down just a little, and draw out a little, shallow thrusts so he’s never fully in or fully out. This kind of stroke makes me crazy. Each time I whimper and moan and refuse to let myself sink him deep, and he begins to groan with me. I’m not seeking orgasm, I’m just finding him, finding me, finding us. I’m exploring this thing, this act called sex.
 

It’s so far beyond amazing that I can’t comprehend it. I press my open, quivering mouth to his sweating chest and continue shallow strokes for a few moments, and then I feel Dawson tense beneath me. His pectorals go hard as rock, his arms coil into stone, and his face freezes, his jaw clenched.

“Dawson? What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I’m—holding back.”

I realize he’s at that edge, about to orgasm. “Let go, then.”

“No. I want to come with you.” He leans up and kisses me, intending it to be a quick kiss before falling back, but I follow him down and devour his mouth with mine.

“Then come with me,” I say.

He groans as I slide him all the way in, and I love, almost more than anything else, hearing him make involuntary noises. I draw him out, and then impale him into me quickly. Our groans merge as our bodies join. I start a rhythm of deep strokes, holding on to his neck, moving only my hips. He lifts me up and takes a nipple into my mouth, and I whimper louder than ever, and I feel the crest of orgasm approaching. He’s rock hard all over, every muscle tensed, and then as my motions become more erratic and my wordless moans of pleasure become his name groaned over and over again, he starts to move with me, and I have no control at all, no rhythm. I’m just desperately plunging onto him, filling myself with him.

“Oh, oh, god,” I say as I feel him lose control as well.
 

“Swear,” he grunts. He sees the momentary confusion on my face, and he elaborates. “Let go, baby. I want to hear you swear. Come for me, Grey. Come hard, and don’t hold back.”

I am holding back. I snake my arms around his neck and lie flat, all my weight on him, and grind my hips against his and let myself go. Screams are muffled by his flesh, and now I erupt, and his name is the only sound on my lips, chanted over and over again as heaven thunders open within me. I’m crashing, hips madly plunging and hands clawing into his skin.

“Dawson,” I gasp, and then I remember what he said, and I crack the last shell of control, and all I can do is cling to him as the words tumble free. “Oh,
fuck
, Dawson! God, oh, god, oh, fuck…come with me, come now…”
 

The world ends in that moment. Lights flash and my entire existence shifts, and then I’m moving. He’s above me, thank god, and he’s wild, uncontrolled, plunging into me, and I love every touch, every slap, every slam, and I hear him groaning, and I expect to hear him swear like I did, but he surprises me.
 

“Grey.” It’s a whisper, a crazy contrast to his wild thrusting. “Oh, Grey, sweet Grey…my Grey…” And he comes at last. I feel it happen, a tensing followed by heat and he’s gone, wordless, just his breath on my skin and our bodies as close as can be, and I feel his soul next to mine, in mine, around mine, woven together.