Christmas In His Bed. Sasha SummersЧитать онлайн книгу.
hungry.
Still, he had to be sure. “Tatum, I’m not sure—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “If the answer’s no, just say it. Otherwise, I’d rather we didn’t do much talking.”
He raised an eyebrow. Because talking meant thinking. And she’d already made it clear she didn’t want to overthink this. He should tell her no and walk away. Instead, he was going to give her what she wanted, what he wanted. “I’m not saying no.” He tilted her head back, making sure she was listening. “You want me to kiss you, Tatum? To touch you?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “Yes.” The quiver in her voice shook him, stirring a possessiveness he hadn’t felt since they were young and in love. He swallowed back the wash of memories—and regret—and focused on the job at hand.
She wanted to feel alive. He’d give it his all. And enjoy every damn minute of it.
His hands cupped her face, his thumbs tracing her lower lip before he pressed his mouth to hers. His lips parted hers, sealing their mouths and mixing their breaths. When she trembled, he smiled, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight against him. She was soft and warm, moving against him and gripping his shirt. He kissed her until she was clinging to him, her body molding to his, her tongue making him dizzy. Whatever she wanted, he’d give her.
He paused long enough to turn off the stove and swing her up into his arms. She twined her arms around his neck, her fingers slipping into his hair as he carried her into the living room. He set her on her feet long enough to toss the couch cushions onto the floor in front of the fire, then knelt in front of her.
His hands settled at her waist, working the fabric of her top free from the waist of her leggings. Her skin contracted beneath his fingertips, quivering. He looked up at her as his mouth brushed across her bare abdomen. She gasped, her fingers running through his hair. His lips skimmed her stomach, her waist. Her fingers tightened, tugging. He was mesmerized by the wonder on her face and the feel of her skin. Soft as silk. His hands slid up her sides and around her back, his fingers exploring every bump of her spine.
Her hands moved, settling on his shoulders to fist in the fabric of his shirt.
He lifted her hands, kissing each finger before pulling his shirt off. Her reaction was unexpected. He wanted her to touch him, hoped she would. Instead, she stared at him, slowly dropping to her knees. Her breathing was erratic, so rapid he worried she’d hyperventilate. Her hands stayed put, pressed flat against her thighs.
“Breathe, Tatum,” he whispered.
She nodded, staring at his chest.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, still staring at his chest.
Tatum had never shied away from telling him what she wanted. There’d been times he’d had to put on the brakes. But now she seemed hesitant. “Want me to put my shirt back on?”
She shook her head. “No,” she croaked.
“Talk to me,” he encouraged, taking her hand. How many times had they ended up twined together, too caught up to know where one ended and the other began? It had been natural between them, easy. But now she seemed uncertain and it tore him up inside. “Tell me what you want. What you like.”
She looked at him, blinking rapidly, but said nothing.
He pressed her hand against his chest. Her gaze fixed on her hand, her lips parting as her fingers traced the valley between his pectorals. “Whatever you want, Tatum...” He couldn’t finish his sentence. The way she was looking at him made it impossible for him to say a word.
Her breathing echoed in the quite room, her attention focused solely on his bare chest and stomach. He was spellbound by the fascination on her face.
One second she was sitting there, facing him, her touch tentative. The next he was lying back on the pile of pillows, her hesitation replaced by desperate curiosity. He watched her expression, aware of every move her hands and fingers made. She bent over him, her long golden hair spilling onto his stomach as her lips and tongue explored the super-sensitized flesh of his nipple.
He reached up to thread his fingers in her hair, absorbing every caress and stroke. She took her time, exploring every inch of him with her soft hands and mouth. Her teeth nipped his side, her nails ran the length of his arms, and she kissed and sucked her way down his abdomen. He could barely breathe. Her tongue dipped into his belly button and he arched into her, groaning as her warm mouth brushed across his skin. “Dammit, Tatum.”
She unfastened his pants, clasping the waist of his jeans and tugging his boxers off with them. She sat back on her heels then, staring at his prominent erection. No way could she miss the way he was throbbing, aching, for her. He shuddered as her fingers lightly stroked the length of him. But the noise she made, a strange broken cry, drew his focus back to her.
She tugged her shirt off, standing to remove her pants. She wavered on unsteady legs, so he sat up and helped her frantically peel off the two pairs of leggings and more socks. When she was as naked as he was, he had to touch her. He buried his face against her side, pressing a kiss against the swell of her hip, before pulling her down with him. Her lips found his, their tongues touching and stroking. He slid his hand through her hair, holding her close, savoring the taste of her as every curve and angle of her body fitted against his.
He didn’t know how much more he could take. He needed her, needed to be inside of her, now. But that wouldn’t be fair. He’d barely touched her. He wanted to touch her. And clearly, she needed to be touched. He wanted to make her fall apart, to lose control, to find a release. Again and again.
His hand cupped her breast, drawing her nipple deep into his mouth. She made that strange little cry again. He looked at her, at the way she bit her lower lip.
“I want to hear you,” he murmured. “I want to know when you like something.”
He rolled her nipple between his fingers and thumb, watching her. His tongue flicked the tip. She groaned, crying out when his mouth latched on to the other nipple.
He lifted her arms over her head, kissing along her sides, sucking the skin until he knew he’d leave marks. His hands were busy too, stroking the curve of her hip, the underside of her breast, the soft skin of her inner thigh. When his fingers traced the slick flesh between her legs, she made that strangled cry.
“Don’t hold back, Tatum,” he demanded, stroking the nub of nerves at her core. “Not with me.” His finger parted her, sliding deep. He groaned at the feel of her, closing his eyes at her tight heat gloving his finger. He moved, stroking her skin, filling her. His thumb set an urgent rhythm against the taut bud, his finger doing the job his body ached to do. And the sounds she made... Pure torture.
Her hands gripped his shoulders as she arched into his touch. He cupped her breast, gently running his teeth over the tip as he added another finger. She was so tight around him. He groaned, burying his face against her breast and gritting his teeth against the need to bury himself inside of her. “You feel so good.” He all but growled the words.
She cried out, long and ragged. He watched her face as her body contracted around his fingers. She grabbed his arm, holding his hand in place as she rode out her climax. It was the sexiest damn thing he’d ever seen. She was beautiful. So damn beautiful. And he wanted to see that look, that stunned, frantic release, on her face again.
She opened her eyes, gasping. “That was so...so much better than a vibrator.”
He was so surprised, he laughed. And then she was laughing too.
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