Stripped Read online
He stares down at me, into me. “Do I have to spell it out?”
“Be mine. Be with me. ” He’s whispering. His hands are rock steady, but his eyes flick back and forth, the only sign of nerves.
“Have sex with you, you mean. Be a one-night stand, you mean. ”
He growls. “No. Fuck. No, Grey. I mean, yes, I want to be with you. But…in every way. With you. ” He runs his hands down my arms, to my waist, to my hips, and he lifts me up. My legs instinctively go around his waist and his hands are on my backside, and I feel him all around me, so, so close. “I want to kiss you whenever I feel like it. I want to tell you when you’re being ridiculous. I want to make love to you. I want to f**k you. I want to hold you. I want to be yours. I don’t know you, like, at all, but I want all this. It’s total craziness. I feel like I should be admitted for saying this to you. Fuck, I should have my man-card revoked for being all emotional and girly and telling you my feelings. But…I’m nothing if not honest. So there it is. ”
I can’t breathe. I’m not hyperventilating; I’m whatever the opposite of that is. My lungs are burning because I’m literally not breathing. I’m staring into his eyes and hearing his words and completely at a loss. I can’t believe it.
“Say something, Grey. Jesus. I just put my goddamn heart out on a wire for you, and you’re not saying anything. ” His voice is a harsh whisper.
“You want that?” I swallow. “With me? But…you don’t know things about me. You don’t…you don’t do that. You don’t have girlfriends. ”
He frowns. “No, I have—rather, I’ve had—a shitload of girlfriends. Girlfriends are a dime a dozen. I could snap my fingers and have six girlfriends, one for every day of the week and Sunday off. I don’t want that. I’ve had that. It’s boring. I want you. ” His eyes are going thundercloud gray, dark, threatening. “I don’t know anything about you. But that’s the point: I want to know. ”
All I can do is kiss him. It’s necessary, more than breathing. He kisses me back tentatively, as if not quite sure I’m really doing this. But I am. I’m kissing him because it’s the only answer I have. My legs tighten around his waist, and my hands feather through his hair and cup the back of his head and pull him to me, and I’m beyond desperate.
This man wants me.
He spins in place, and suddenly I’m on the bed with Dawson above me. It’s so right like this. He’s delicious. He tastes like coffee and bagel and the faint trace of toothpaste. His tongue slips between my lips and my teeth and touches my tongue. I’m holding on to him for dear life and kissing him with everything I have, letting him capture my mouth with his, letting him possess my tongue. He pulls away gently, and I’m lost briefly, spiraling with need to have his kiss, and then his teeth take my lower lip, nibble, bite, and then my lip is in his mouth and he’s shifting his weight. His hand brushes my hair away from my face, and his eyes are a thousand shades of gray and blue and green and brown, indefinable, indescribable and he’s gazing at me as if I hold the answer to every question in his mind. His palm brushes down my neck, and his thumb skates over my jaw, and then down my arm to my waist. His shirt is bunched under my br**sts, baring most of my belly; he touches my hip, his palm hot and strong and callused against my soft, white skin. I suck in a breath as he dares upward, touching my ribs. His knuckles brush the underside of my right breast, and I let my eyes fall closed, but he doesn’t take my breast in his hand. He just pushes the shirt up a little, and stares down at me. My eyes are closed, but I feel his stare. I let him look. It’s not like on stage, though; his gaze is tender. It’s too much, and I have to kiss him again, before I completely lose myself in him.
He kisses me, and then pulls away and lowers his mouth to plant a kiss between my br**sts. I’m terrified, my heart hammering. His mouth is hot and wet on my skin, and now he’s moving his slow kiss down the slope of one breast and my heart beats wildly against my ribs—surely he can feel it pounding?—but he shows no sign of noticing my terror, he just slowly and carefully continues his small, slow kisses all over the round weight of my right breast, until he’s ringing my nipple with kisses. My nipple is erect, hard, almost as if begging him to plant a kiss there.
And then he does, and the moan that erupts from me is loud, breathy, and erotic. I feel myself blush at the moan, but I have no time or thought-space for anything else as he sucks my nipple hard, flattening it. I moan again, gasping, writhing underneath him. I’ve never, ever felt anything like this. It’s overwhelming, earth-shattering. I clutch the back of his head as he releases my nipple with a pop and then flicks it with his tongue, grazes it with his teeth. Heat and pressure build inside me, centered low in my belly, in my core. It’s a desperate pressure, a volcanic need, and I don’t know what to do.
While his mouth is busy with my right nipple, his left hand is doing similar things to my left breast, and I’m gasping and breathless, making all sorts of embarrassing noises. I know, deep inside me, that I shouldn’t be doing this. My pastor’s daughter guilt is kicking in, telling me I’m sinning with this man. I do my best to ignore that little voice, that leftover seed of shame.
He moves his mouth to my left nipple, and his right hand carves over my ribs, over my belly, to my hip, and his fingers slip under the waistband of my yoga pants, and then stops, eyes on mine. I take over for him, pushing my pants down, rolling them away.
I’m helpless. I have no will left, no capacity to resist his touch, no ability to stop this. I know I should, but I can’t. I’m so weak. So weak. He’s all over me, kissing my mouth, kissing my throat, tweaking my ni**les in his fingers, keeping me breathless and restless and writhing, and the pressure is mounting inside me, in my core. I’m damp down there, slick. I press my thighs together in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure, but it does nothing.
My tight black yoga pants are rolled down far enough that the top of my underwear is showing, a strip of red cotton. My eyes are closing and opening, taking in Dawson’s face, his eyes as he glances at me, his mouth as he sucks at my nipple and stretches it, making me moan and squirm and gasp as the heat and pressure build to an unbearable level. And then his fingers graze the elastic line of my underwear and pause. I’m completely at his mercy. I know that I shouldn’t let this happen, that I’m crossing some line I shouldn’t cross, but I won’t stop it. He’s touching me; he owns me. He knows exactly what I need, what I want, even if I don’t.
And now, oh, god. His fingers, just his middle and ring fingers are slipping under the elastic to touch the waxed-smooth skin, and I’m trembling all over. I want this. I want him to touch me.
I’ve never even touched myself there. Never. It was an unspoken sin, shameful and disgusting. And then, as an adult, I had no reason or time. I’ve never known desire, never known the need to touch myself like he’s touching me.
His eyes are greenish now, a color I’ve never seen in him before. He’s watching me as he moves his touch—oh, so gradually, so carefully—downward. My thighs are pressed tight together, but loosen to welcome his touch, as if my body wants this even though my mind, heart and soul are at war. My body responds. His long middle finger is nearing the top of my opening, and then the tip of his finger is slipping inside me. I whimper, a noise of need and fear.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs. His eyes are on me, and I know he’s reading my emotions.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I just meet his eyes, and then my back lifts and my hips rise, and again my body makes my decision for me. His middle finger sinks deeper inside me, and now a word finally escapes my lips.
His name. “Dawson…” It’s a whispered plea, but I don’t know if I’m asking for more or begging him to stop.
I’m trembling all over. My knees shake, my hands shake. My lips shiver, and my eyes can’t focus. I feel his finger between my lips, a foreign feeling, a fullness, and then he’s delving deeper. H