Page 57 of The CEO and the Mountain Man

We were barely through the door when he dropped his shorts. He wasn’t wearing underwear.

“You, sir, are a minx.”

“Your minx,” he murmured, kissing me.

Ireallyneeded him to stop doing that, but I’d glug a gallon of cold grease before telling him that. Instead, my hands went to his ribs, tracing his body down to his hips, over his ass, pulling him tight against me.

We kissed until I was hard, and I stripped down. He tucked a couple of pillows under his ass before settling against the headboard, then spread his legs and patted his thighs. I felt alittle goofy as I crawled onto the bed. Ungainly, at the very least, as I turned and fit myself—barely—between his thighs.

I lay back against his chest. Breathed.

I was still much, much bigger than him, but his lanky arms easily reached around me. He squeezed my chest and belly and, most importantly, my cock.

“You comfortable?” he asked, kissing my ear.

“Super comfortable.” I checked my watch. “How long do you think you’ll be edging me for?”

“Long enough to make it count, but short enough that neither of us ages in the interim. Sound good?”

“Very.”

He slipped my watch from my wrist, setting it on his side table. I let my head drop back against his shoulder, and we breathed in unison. In and out. In and out.

He started by dripping the massage oil down my chest. It was so warm that I immediately relaxed.

He flattened his palms, spreading the oil over my chest, saturating the hair. Rhythmically stroking down and back up again, creating a slick surface from my collarbones to my pubic bone. He kept his touch light enough to roll me into a relaxed headspace I never could’ve found on my own.

Bringing his hands up, he used his thumb and forefingers to tease at my nipples, plucking at them, twisting them; the touch still a hair too light.

“More,” I begged, shimmying against him.

He clucked his tongue. “I don’t think you know what edging means.”

I laughed. “Sorry.”

His hands crisscrossed my chest and belly, dipping occasionally into the V of my hips. Even less frequently to my balls. My cock, wanting to be a part of the fun, rose to the occasion. He ignored it. I groaned at the way his hands teasedout such pleasure from my skin, but I was so desperate for him to just fucking touch my dick.

A little more oil, the sweep of his hands, the pluck of his fingertips, soft kisses to the back of my neck. Flat palm on my lower belly, rubbing underneath my erection, but somehow managing to only barely brush it. Sucking my earlobe into his mouth, circling my nipples with his thumbs. Shifting those devil thumbs down to my hips, rubbing at the hip bone, encouraging me to bend my legs, leaving me feeling exposed. Under-stimulated.

So fucking relaxed, but not.

He kept at it, persistent. Patient. Machiavellian. Rubbing my shoulders, running his palms up and down my chest, sliding over my desperate nipples. Circling my belly button, dropping lower to cup my balls, then returning with a light brush of a nipple.

I complained—loudly—but he would simplytskbefore continuing the delicious torture. I learned quickly that he’d happily delay my pleasure the more I complained and begged. So, I clamped my lips together, letting him tease me mercilessly. Quiet, save for pleasured moans I had no hope of controlling.

Finally,finallya stripe of oil to my cock.

It twitched hard at that bare sensation.

“Someone has been so patient for me,” he murmured in my ear.

“Notthatpatient,” I grumbled in return.

I was rewarded with a laugh and a firm stroke. Thank fucking God.

“You like that?”

“It’s my favorite thing in the world,” I said, breathless and twitchy and so fucking needy.