Voyeur - Lacey Alexander [30]
“I couldn’t let it end,” he breathed warm and wicked in her ear.
She lay facing away from him in the bed and could feel his erection—that quickly—pressing into the crack of her ass. One large hand curled around her waist, fingers splaying wide across her stomach through her top as he lowered a scintillating kiss to her neck. It set off explosions of pleasure inside her.
She never once thought of objecting, stopping him.
Having him here, next to her, touching her, after the things she’d longed for and the intimacies they’d already shared . . . there was no hope of stopping, no reason to try. She didn’t have sex with strangers, but this was different. Maybe because he no longer felt so much like a stranger, having come to her like this. Or maybe just because he felt too overwhelmingly good, the sex dripping off of him and onto her like something tangible that instantly consumed her. Either way, she wanted it with her whole self.
He stroked and caressed her belly, his fingers finding the skin between cami and waistband and then flirting with the underside of her breast, all the while delivering more kisses to her neck, shoulder. Her whole body rippled with the supreme pleasure of finally having his hands on her, of having him in her bed.
When his palm closed over her breast, she moaned and instinctively arched into his touch. His breath grew heavy, hot, as he massaged her with a slow, intoxicating rhythm that quickly swallowed her, helping her forget to think and only to feel. His cock grew harder against her rear, and she found herself pushing back against it, wanting to feel even more. Braden growled softly in response, and the sound ran all through her, heightening her excitement.
Rolling to her back beneath him, she lifted her hands to his cheeks, studied his face. How strange to be in bed with a man whose eyes she’d never before looked into. Oh God, he was beautiful—even more than in the photo. Dark, thick hair framed strong features and expressive eyes, even seen only in the moonlight. She couldn’t quite make out the color—brown, she thought. Deep and warm. Dark stubble covered his chin, and she grew aware that he wore a T-shirt and jeans, stretched out against her.
He peered boldly back at her the whole time, clearly taking in her face, as well, his look devouring her until finally he lowered a slow, passionate kiss to her lips. Her fingers threaded through his hair as she met his sensually prodding tongue with her own. Short French kisses mingled with longer, deeper meetings of mouths until she was lost in it—and utterly thunderstruck.
No man had ever kissed her this way, this . . . perfectly from the start. It was as if they’d been kissing each other for eons, as if they knew exactly how the other would respond, how lengthy or fleeting the kisses should be, how passionate or lingering. She felt strangely and suddenly like a schoolgirl, as if she could have kissed him all night and it would have been enough to satisfy her.
Until, of course, his palms returned to her breasts, capturing them both with unabashed possessiveness, massaging gently but thoroughly, and drawing a long, hard sigh from deep within her. His hands were skilled, confident—they owned her on contact—and, just as she’d somehow known, were way better at pleasuring her than even her own.
The kisses went on as he kneaded her and slipped his thigh between her legs beneath the sheets. His erection jutted rock-solid against her hip, and they moved together in rhythmic bliss as Braden pushed her top up over her breasts.
His strong hands molded to the outer curves as she peered down to see them within his grasp, the peaks taut and pink. He looked, too, then met her eyes only briefly before dropping down to capture one sensitive nipple in his mouth.
“Ohhh . . .” she moaned as the pleasure expanded through her with the pull of his lips. She curled her fingers into his hair and watched as he suckled deeply—yes, yes—then opened his eyes to lock them on hers. The connection was startlingly intimate—but they’d