What She Needs - Lacey Alexander [35]
Then he released one of her hips and reached down for her hand, removing it from the desk’s edge. He drew it up over where he entered her—hard, so hard—and pressed her fingertips to her clitoris, holding them there. “Touch yourself while I fuck you,” he said, his gaze still steady and commanding on her.
Impulsively, she tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t allow it. He pushed her fingers back down, even moving them over the sensitive nub to send an unbidden pleasure expanding outward.
“I don’t want it to happen that way,” she protested as he continued to pound into her flesh below. “I want you to do it.”
He simply gave his head a short, definite shake. “Rub your clit,” he insisted. “Do it!”
But the second he began to remove his hand, she did, too—so he shoved her fingers back down, rougher this time, forcing her to feel her own wetness.
She bit her lip, their eyes still locked. “This . . . doesn’t . . . make me . . . feel good,” she managed between the hard strokes of his erection.
“It will if you let it,” he assured her. “You can even close your eyes if you want.” He suddenly sounded a little more like Brent than Father Powers, and she immediately accepted the offer to shut her eyes, shut out all the shocking, erotic images assaulting her. But she still didn’t want to touch herself. It wasn’t that she never did—she did sometimes; it was that she couldn’t bear to do it in front of someone. Even during sex. It felt so . . . private, personal.
Yet Brent still held her fingers down into her folds, and even just the friction created by his thrusts succeeded in moving her clit against her hand. And soon she heard her breath begin to change, deepen, felt her chest begin to expand and contract as she bit her lip and lifted her hips to better meet his hard drives—and her own fingers.
Oh God. Oh God, it would happen soon. Still, Brent flattened his fingertips over hers, moving them in a hot little circle that made her begin to moan.
And as his touch grew gradually lighter, she wanted to lift her hand away, too—but she didn’t. Couldn’t really. Because—dear God—she was so close, everything inside her pounding, pulsating, reaching. And then she exploded in orgasm, crying out, lifting to meet his big erection and her own wet fingertips, again, again, again.
Oh God.
When the hot waves passed, she felt spent.
Above her, Brent was saying, “That was good, baby. So hot. You did so well.” And she opened her eyes to find his gaze on her—and it somehow made her thrust harder against him, wanting more and more of him, deep inside her, wanting him to make her feel everything, everything there was to feel in the world, in sex, in passion.
Until he was moving in her so violently, fucking her so hard, that she couldn’t think straight, screaming at every powerful plunge, and he began to growl, to groan, and then his eyes fell shut and he began murmuring, “Fuck, aw fuck, I can’t stop. Here I come, baby, here I come.”
And the thrusts he delivered then, accompanied by still more fierce growls, nearly nailed her to the desk—and she liked it.
Soon he fell forward onto her, collapsing in exhaustion, and she noticed for the first time that her legs were wrapped tight around him, the tall heels of her shoes digging into his ass. And as she lay there beneath him, she realized in pure horror that somewhere along the way she’d begun to think in the terms he used: ass, fucking, clit. How the hell had that happened? It made her feel like . . . someone else, someone she wasn’t. Or at least she didn’t think she was that person.
She could smell him, the musky male scent of him, and suffered the urge to wrap her arms around him, too, or maybe run one hand through his thick hair, his head resting gently on her shoulder now—but she didn’t. Because she wasn’t sure how this part worked. And she wasn’t at all sure she should let him know, that despite the fantasy situation here, she was feeling a little connected to him just from being so close, so weirdly personal.
Finally, he rolled off her, onto his side on the desk,