Page 143 of Dream House
I shift between her knees and take in the sight before me. Her unlaced bodice reveals one breast and its glistening pink nipple. The orange fabric of her skirt cascades over the tops of her lovely thighs.
I rise up onto my knees, gather handfuls of skirt, and push it up to her middle. Stella gasps as cool air lands on peach panties.
Noticeably wet peach panties.
My gaze locks to hers, and I know by the way her eyes widen just a fraction, she sees the heat and hunger in mine.
“I like these,” I say nodding to the triangle scrap of fabric covering her pussy. “But they have to go.”
I watch her swallow. She licks her lips and then nods.
Between her legs, I shift my hands under her ass, catch the top, and pull them off. They land on the floor somewhere behind me.
I’ve had the good fortune to touch her here, but this is the first time I’ve laid eyes on her. I knew. I knew her sex was beautiful, but seeing it laid bare for me is somehow surprisingly sacred. A flower from Eden. The fruit of kingdom come.
For a moment, all I can do is feel.
I place a hand flat against each thigh, I spread them wider, making my intention known.
“Two years is a long time. But you’re gonna have to wait a little longer.”
The instant my tongue touches her coral flesh, we both moan. I have never felt more alive. The tang of her sex on my tongue is an existential anchor. A Descartian maxim.
I know Stella’s taste; therefore, I am.
And now that I’m here, I can’t get enough.
I lap. Nibble. Suckle. Devour. Stella bucks beneath me. The fingers of both of her hands thread through my hair, and she grips me with a force that turns me inside out.
I never want her to let go.
“Lark—Oh, God, Lark—”
Her wetness is my bounty. Her cries mine to claim. Everything I know narrows down to the need in her body. Her straining thighs against my ears. Her swollen clit against my tongue. Her fingernails against my scalp.
When the thrust of her hips becomes more reckless and demanding, I slide two fingers into her silken slickness. Her gasps grow choppy. I glide and press, aiming for the place within her where it all comes together. Where it all breaks apart.
I know by the shake in her thighs, the tightening of her ass that I’ve found it, and the rhythm, the thrust and arch we create is intoxicating. I could stay here forever.
But it’s only seconds before her muscles lock and her cries pitch and her sex pulses wildly against my fingers and tongue.
Stella goes limp around me, but I don’t stop. I don’t withdraw. I keep kissing. Keep loving.
“Please—” she pants. “Lark, please.”
I don’t know if she’s begging me to stop or to carry on forever.
I lap her clit again, sending a shiver through her whole body before I look up. Her face is flushed. Sweat beads above her sensual lips. Her eyes are half-lidded, but she meets my gaze openly.
“Please what?” I ask, my voice an unrecognizable sound. As if granite could purr. God knows, I’m as hard as granite. Maybe my whole body has turned to rock, including my vocal cords.
“Please get inside me.” She frees my hair and with swift motions whips her rumpled dress over her head.
And this is the moment I realize I love her. Salon Stella. Soft Stella. Sexed-up Stella. Angry Stella. Awkward Stella. Distracted Stella. Nervous Stella. Vulnerable Stella. Hungry Stella.
My Stella.
There isn’t a side of her I’m not head over heels for.
