Page 37 of Off Limits: The Firsts

His fingers stop. His hand stills. My head snaps up so I can look him in the eyes. And once our eyes meet, once he knows he has my attention, he takes the pads of two fingers and slides them ever-so-tauntingly-slowly down the line of my sex. He teases me, wetting them with my arousal before just as leisurely sliding them into me.

My exhale is unsteady, nerves already strung tight and primed to snap. But it’s his eyes on mine—unwavering and intense—that dare me more than anything. To come for him. To please him.

He hears every hitch of my breath. He watches the arch of my neck. He notices when I bite into my bottom lip. He feels each clench of my muscles around his finger. And it’s this complete attention that creates an unexpected intimacy and encourages me to slip under that veil of pleasure.

The orgasm slams into me, hijacking my breath as the explosion of desire morphs into a flash of white-hot heat.

My hands grab the sheets. My hips buck into his hand. My lips part, but no sound escapes. My body is seared by the sensations he’s just brought to life.

The bed dips as he moves, and I can just barely hear the telltale rip of foil over the thunder of my pulse in my ears. And before I have any chance to recover from the orgasm still pulsing through me, Easton’s hands are on the back of my knees, pulling me toward the edge of the bed.

He meets my eyes as he steps between my legs and wastes no time making that first carnal connection when he runs the crest of his dick up and down my slit to prepare both of us for what comes next.

And oh, how I want it to come next. Especially if it feels this incredible already and we haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.

He groans, his struggle to take this slow written all over his face. But I don’t want slow. I want him. Now. And I’m desperate to have him, so in an attempt to snap that control of his and get what I want, I spread my thighs as wide as possible in invitation.

His eyes flash up to mine, a ghost of a smile on his lips that tells me he knows what I’m doing, but he holds on. Resists. And then he taunts me right back by pushing just the tip of his cock inside me so I can feel that burn that is oh so good before he slowly pulls back out.

I lift my hips to try and prevent him from withdrawing completely but he just steps a foot back with his cock in his hand, and smiles at me.

Smug bastard.

We wage a visual war of wills, but when he looks back down to where I’m wet and waiting for him, he caves.

But if I thought this time the wait would be over, that he was going to give me what I want—all of him—I was wrong. Because he continues to toy with me, tease me, arouse me by rubbing his tip just inside of me until I moan with want, before pulling back out.

And the best part is his expression. Not just the taut lines in his neck telling me he’s struggling through the denied pleasure like I am, but the widening of his eyes and how his lips fall lax in pleasure each time he enters me.

The next time he pushes his hips forward, I prop myself up on my elbows so I can look between my thighs and see what he sees. How my arousal—visual proof of what he does to me—glistens on his shaft. How each time he pulls out, he slides a little deeper into me the next time, uses his hand to guide his cock so it rubs expertly around all of the nerves within me, and then withdraws.

Before starting the process all over again.

It’s arousing. Heady. Intoxicating. To see my body accept his hard girth. To watch how I stretch around him, adjust to him, and then take him in a little more. To see how when he pulls back out, my pink flesh clings tight like I don’t want him to part from me just yet. To know that, even after coming once, my body is more than willing to go again with him.

His patience is admirable. His determination to stretch me bit by bit, escalate our desire inch by inch, is frustrating and erotic and leaves me vibrating with need.

And then finally, with one final thrust he bottoms out, fully sheathed, root to tip, within me. Our mutual groans fill the room as we each allow the other to savor the moment, the feeling, our first time coming together like this.

Seconds pass. Anticipation steals our breaths. And then he reaches out, puts his hand on my shoulder, and holds me in place so he can grind his hips against mine, seating his cock even further into me.

And holy fuck does he feel incredible.

We both gasp, caught up in the slow circle he makes with his pelvis and the absolute eroticism of the moment.

And then he begins to really move.

Our foreheads are pressed against each other’s. Our lips kiss and then pant and praise. Our hips move, grinding and bucking in that first-time dance as we find the friction we both need to drive us to the edge. Our hands tense and grasp and grip as Easton picks up the pace.

We crash together in a torrent of lust and lips and tongues, where wants now become needs. Where greed becomes the game, and satisfying it becomes a by-all- means-necessary type of strategy. Where bodies mesh and meet and tease and pleasure.

The room fills with sounds.

Fuck, that feels good.

Right there.

Scout.