Page 32 of Bad Attitude
I have to stop him.
“Declan…” I manage to speak, and his name is about all I can utter.
“I can’t get enough of the taste of you,” he murmurs against me, punctuating his words with another lick. “You’re gorgeous. Fucking delicious. I could eat you all day.”
Oh… okay. That’s… fine then?
If this is sex, I’ve definitely been doing it wrong.
Hell, I haven’t been doing itat all. I’ve had it donetome, but it’s been so long that all I can remember is lying there, beneath one of the two men I’ve had disastrous relationships with, a minute of fumbling, discomfort, and heavy breathing, and then theirweight rolling off me.
Declan has given me more pleasure in two minutes than all of my experiences to this point.
“Don’t stop.” The plea slips from my lips, and I can’t catch it in time.
“Stop, my little hellcat? I’ve hardly started.” He meets my gaze from between my legs, his mouth wet with my arousal, an easy grin on his face. He gives me another slow lick, watching me all the while, then speaks again. “I won’t be finished until I’ve made you come.” Another long lick, then he uses his thumbs to spread my folds, opening me in a way that’s truly obscene. “Not just once,” he adds, and blows lightly on my clit. My hips twitch, my breath catching. “No, I won’t be settling foronce.”
I whimper as his words hit me, making my body react. I didn’t know my nipples could get tighter or ache more. I didn’t know my blush could burn so bright it tinged the tops of my breasts. I didn’t know I could get wetter than I already am.
His tongue lashes across my clit, and my hips buck, my body tensing. I grip the seat cushion beneath me with one hand, the other forming a fist which I shove against my mouth.
“Don’t muffle your cries,” he murmurs. “I want to hear them.”
Dear fuckingGod. He doesn’t know what he’s asking; the neighbors are going to call the cops.
His tongue goes to work again, circling my clit one moment, licking flat against it the next, more stimulation than I can take. More than I’ve everexperienced, short of my own efforts, and this feelsso muchbetter than anything I’ve done to myself. My cries come short and high, my shame almost suppressed by the pleasure he’s bringing me, and the noises I’m making fill the room, despite my attempts to smother them.
Then his finger slides inside me, rubs just within, and my world turns white. If what I’d had before was an orgasm, this is a fucking explosion. It rips through me and takes everything with it, thought and breath and any last shred of control. I clench on his finger, unable to stop myself, my cries so loud my fist isn’t enough, and I’m barely able to turn my head and press my face into the back cushion of the couch. His tongue and finger work together, and it only drives the pleasure higher and higher, on and on, until I feel like I’m floating.
My cries have faded because I’ve no breath in my lungs. I gasp another, my body tightening as a new wave rushes through me, even though his finger has stopped rubbing and his tongue is at last, mercifully, still.
And he’s watching me. Staring at me, with an expression I can’t identify.
Shit.
I crash back to the Earth with a swoop that makes my stomach plummet. I’ve done something wrong, and I don’t know what. That wasn’tmyfault.Hecaused it.
I can’t meet his eyes.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, something inhis tone. “I could watch you come a million times and only want to see it again.” It’s reverence. He hasreverencein his tone. For me? “Is it always like that for you?”
It’sneverbeen like that for me. But I can’t tell him. Instead, I bury my face behind my hands. My cheeks are wet; I don’t know why. Tears of pleasure? Intensity? Shame? I’m not sure.
He doesn’t seem to mind I haven’t replied, but stands up at the end of the couch, still looking at me, then bends and removes his boots. One, then the other, and he strips off his pants. I can’t not look. The breadth of his shoulders, the power of his chest. The way the muscles in his arms bulge and straighten as he moves. The tautness of his waist, the trail of hair down from his navel to his trimmed pubes, his cock thick and hard and more than I’ve ever had to deal with.
The man is a fucking Adonis, his body sculpted by a master then decorated with ink. For the first time, I resent tattoos, because they hide some of his perfection. Yet I can’t deny they suit him, too. A grinning skull in the center of his chest, leaves and flames curling around, geometric shapes blurring into a spiderweb of curls and strands, every inch of him marked and all of it interconnected.
I want to trace each of them with my tongue, then find his nipples with my teeth. I want my mouth on his cock, feeling his soft hardness between my lips. That, I have done—twice—but before now, I’ve neverwantedto.
In this moment, I hate my inexperience.Anything else in life, I’d take it head on and beat it into submission. But this? Him? He’s in a different league. How can I possibly compete?
He holds a hand out to me, and I know I should take it but I can’t.
“Come with me,” he says. “I want more. Ineedyou. If I don’t get inside that perfect fucking pussy of yours, I’m going to explode.”
Fuck.
My body tightens again, stomach squirming, pussy clenching like he’s already in me.
