Falling Away (11 page)

And then we’re sliding down, and the towel is coming undone, bunching around my hips, and I feel air cool on my hip as it eases open, and then I’m bared and naked on the bed, and the blanket and sheet is somehow not in the way either. I have to pause to breathe, and my eyes open, meet hers, green-gray-brown wide and liquid and heated with need as fiery as my own. She’s naked, too, from the waist up. All she wears is a pair of underwear, a tiny triangle of black over her core with a thin string around her hips. She’s kicked the covers away, and her hand is running up and down my back, her eyes not wavering from mine, and then her palm slides down and down and down and she’s cupping my ass in her hand, squeezing, caressing, and then she’s lifting up and kissing me, pulling me down.
 

I’m hard, achingly hard. Bursting with need from every seam and pore. And yet all I want to do is kiss her, so I let myself press her to the bed with my weight, one hand in the mattress at her side, the other tracing over her forehead, sliding honey-blond hair away, and I kiss her.

Her breasts are soft, crushed between us, and one of her knees rises and bends, sliding at my hip. Her hand remains on my ass, holding and squeezing as if she refuses to let go, as if she’s found what she likes and won’t let it go, can’t get enough. That’s how I feel, at least, as I delve into her mouth with my tongue, explore her lips and teeth and gums and tongue and breathe her breath and absorb the wonder of her skin against mine.

But then my knee makes itself known, and I have to break away and gasp in pain as the aching throb tells me I can’t hold this position for long, levered over her like this.
 

And Echo, god, she seems to know this immediately. She pushes at my chest, and I fall to my side, then to my back, and she’s moving over me, and Jesus, her tits are incredible, round and heavy and swaying, small dark pink areolae and hard button nipples, and my hands find them with a will of their own. I cup and lift them and Echo is sliding a knee across my hips, leaning over me, preparing to bend and kiss me, but her tits are too tempting, and I bring one to my lips, feather my tongue over her nipple and taste its hardness and the salt of her skin.

Echo moans, sinks down to sit on me, back arched and throat bared, breast pressed to my mouth, a hand on my chest. She writhes on me, and I feel her core sliding against my erection, and I’m close to losing it.
 

“Ben…” she breathes. Her voice is soft with bliss and with need.

All I want, all I need, is to hear her voice, to feel her skin, to explore her body.
 

And then she grabs my hand, the one not keeping her swaying breast at my lips, and brings my fingers to the scrap of black fabric.
 

I know what she’s asking of me. Do I dare?

But she’s insistent: “Ben…please. Touch me.”

SEVEN: Chemistry

Echo

I’m a girl who knows what she wants. And when I know, I do something about it. I want Ben, so I do something about it. I know it’s weird and there are reasons why this is a bad idea, but I don’t care. He kisses like a god, with an urgency and a passion that takes my breath away. His hands are gentle and yet strong, and he has this way of letting me decide what I want, and then giving it to me.
 

I’m aching, hot all over with need. I’m frustrated and grieving and he’s here, big and hard and muscular and sexy and naked. He’s not just a distraction, although I could use one. I know he could make me feel good, and I need that. Shit, I know myself well enough to know if Ben and I bang, it won’t be just once. We’ll need it several times to really get it out of our systems. But then something else speaks, deep inside me, and says that there’s more. I want Ben, that’s easy enough to decide. But do I want to just bang him and go my way, the way it’s been with every other guy? Or do I want more?
 

Hell, I don’t know. That’s too much to think about when his mouth is on mine and his skin is hot under mine and his hands are on me. One hand is gentle at my face, a thumb brushing at my flyaway hair, palm at my cheek, and now that thumb is at the corner of my lips, where our mouths join, and no one’s ever kissed me this way, touched my face so tenderly and intimately and gently. It’s a heady feeling, dizzying and arousing. Yet he’s not pushing it. Surely it’s evident how much I want this. Surely he knows by now that he can have me, that I’ll not just let him, but I’ll give back as good as I get. But he doesn’t hurry things. He just kisses and caresses, a huge pleasant presence.

Normally, I’d be clawing at my panties and sliding him in, impatient to get started. I’m not afraid to take charge, especially when it comes to sex. Most, if not all, of my partners have been fairly clueless and clumsy if ardent, so if I want things to be at least somewhat satisfying for me, I have to sort of guide them. And that’s fine. I get what I want, and so does the guy. Of course, what a guy wants from sex and what a girl needs are usually very different.
 

But with Ben, it’s different. I don’t know how, or why. I don’t want to push him; I don’t want to take charge. I want him to be what I need without having to be shown. Because…I think I sense that he can be.

Yet…he’s holding back. And I’m going insane with need. I ache inside. My thighs quiver with need. My core is damp, and I know he can smell my desire. But yet even after I’ve rolled him to ease his weight off his injured knee, and he’s discovered my tits and his mouth latches on and sucks and licks, sending zinging thrills of heated bliss though me, he doesn’t push it past that. Maybe he’s playing a game, pushing me to the edge of sanity. Making me wait.

That’d be hot.

And yet as I gasp and breathe and arch my back, frantic with how good his mouth feels on my nipple, he still keeps his hands away from my core, cupping my boobs and letting me grind on him. God, yes, I feel his erection, and even before I’ve seen it I can tell he’s endowed like a god. And I
want
it. I want his cock. I need it. I’m crazy for it. But I’m even more desperate to come. He’s kissed me senseless and now he’s driving me wild with his mouth on my tits, and I need more.
More
.

I find myself clutching the back of his head, my fingers buried in his thick soft black hair, keeping his mouth against my breast, sitting astride him with my back arched to press him closer, my head hanging back on my neck, and I
need
him to touch me.

So I do something unusual for me: I ask him. “Ben…please. Touch me.”

I’m not an ask-for-it type of girl. I’m a take what I want and if you don’t satisfy me, there won’t be seconds. And honestly, there aren’t usually seconds. I never ask. I know what I want. I know how to get it. I know what I look like and I know guys like it. But somehow, with Ben, everything is just…different.
He’s
different, and I’m different with him.

I take his wrist in my hand and show him what I want, bringing his fingers to my core. The air is cold against my saliva-wet nipples when his mouth leaves my skin, and I look down to see his nearly black eyes wide and dark and intense on mine. I lift up on my knees. One of his hands rests on my hip, the other at the apex of my thighs, reaching nearer and nearer. He slides his hand around my hip and takes my ass cheek in his palm. I bite my lip at the strength in his grip and the delicacy of his touch, the way he caresses me as if unsure if he’s allowed to, as if he’s marveling that I’m letting him touch me, rather than desperate for him to quit playing around and just fucking take me.

I say nothing, just kneel over him and release his wrist now that it’s clear what I want. When his wrist is freed, he slips his hand in the narrow gap between my thighs, and I watch him as he caresses my inner thigh, and then his middle finger traces up my opening over the material of my thong, and I know there’s a wet spot there from my leaking juices. I’m literally wet for him, and I know he sees, feels, smells it. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. For my part, I’m breathless in anticipation.
 

And then he traces back down, and now his finger hooks under the elastic of the thong and pulls the triangle of black aside, baring my pussy for him. He makes a sound in his throat, a murmur of appreciation, I think. I just watch, unable to move or think or breathe or speak. His middle finger skates over my naked opening, and I tremble all over.
 

A gasped moan leaves me when his fingertip eases in, and now there’s just the very tip of his finger inside me, but it’s enough to have me wanting to writhe and beg for more. But I don’t. I keep still and try to keep silent, because he’s slowly drawing his finger down and then back up, and my eyes cross and my eyelids slide closed on their own, fluttering.
 

He drags his fingertip upward, and he finds my clit. I gasp again, unable to prevent myself. And then he brings his finger in a slow, maddening circle, and I can’t help but move my hips in a circle to match, needing more and more. And Ben gives me more. His finger slides into me, piercing me fully, and I whimper as he draws it back out, slicking my essence through me and over my clitoris.
 

My tits ache. I cup them and squeeze, lift, and writhe as he starts to touch me in a rhythm now, sliding in, circle twice, and slide in, circle twice. I let out a groan when he adds a second finger.
 

I feel him lift up and strain toward me, so I plant a palm on his chest, pinning him to the bed, lift my core off his body, and offer my breast to him, bring it to his mouth. He sighs and groans in his chest, and then laves his tongue over my nipple and I’m lost to the lighting bolt striking me at the touch of his mouth. His index and middle fingers move in me, circle and circle, and I feel my hair hanging over one shoulder, probably tickling his chest, feel something huge and hot expanding inside me. I’m gasping nonstop, and then a hot wire tugs inside me, a bolt of surging need connecting my tits to my clit and to the orgasm building inside me.
 

I ride his fingers, now, shamelessly grinding on his touch for more, and he gives me more, more, until I’m wild with the need to fall over the edge. There is not one single thought inside me except the need for him to get me there, and I’m on the edge. His teeth worry over my nipple gently, and I gasp, and then he sucks the nipple into his mouth and his tongue flickers over it, and his fingers circle me with a speed that matches the urgency of my grinding hips.
 

“Ben…shit…oh god…I’m coming, Benji…” I feel the momentary tense of his body beneath me when I use that nickname, but I’m lost to the climax washing over me, surging through me, gripping me and wringing me.
 

I’m helpless, now, caught by the climax.

And Ben does something totally unexpected. He rolls me to my back, and before I can protest, his face is between my thighs and his finger is keeping my thong pulled aside, and his tongue is lapping at me, and the orgasm shatters, or I shatter, a throaty moan ripping out of me. I clutch his face to me, let my knees draw up and fall open, because his tongue is driving and circling my clit and I’m riding his face, writhing and moaning and helpless to contain myself with the potency of my orgasm.

Finally I’m shivering and gasping and shuddering with the aftershocks, and I expect Ben to rise up over me, but he doesn’t. I have to push him away from me, because I can’t take the stimulation for a moment.
 

He rises to lie beside me, watching me, a small satisfied grin on his face as he stares at me.

I gasp for breath, waiting for him. But he doesn’t do anything, just looks at me. “What?” I ask, unnerved by his silence and by the fact that he’s not taking his pleasure yet.

“You’re incredible,” he says. “So gorgeous.”

I give a little shrug and smile. “Thanks.”

“No, for real. You are stunningly beautiful, and sexy as hell.”

I roll toward him, still shaking and breathless. “Thank you, Benji,” I say with a happy, flattered, giddy grin. His eyes close as if in pain. I frown. “Should I not call you that?”

His eyes flick open and go to me. I see determination cross his features. “No. It’s fine.”

I rest a knee on his thigh, a hand on his belly, and can’t help but glance at his cock, straining hard and huge, bigger even than I’d initially guessed. It’s thick, with a wide, bulbous head leaking clear fluid, veins that stand out, long and ever so slightly curved back towards his body, laying flat against his belly. His balls are heavy and dark, prickly with trimmed black hair.
 

God, he’s gorgeous, and I’m going to seriously enjoy what he’s packing.
 

But something in his voice stops me from touching him just yet. “You don’t sound convinced about that.”
 

He shrugs. “I am. Seriously. It’s fine.”

“Let me guess. Benji was a nickname the girl who broke your heart gave you.”

He nods. “Got it in one.”
 

“Well, I’m appropriating it.” I lean over him and press a kiss to his chest. “But for real, if you don’t like it, just tell me.”
 

He shakes his head. “It’s just a reminder, and I need to get over it. And I like the way you say it, anyway.”

“Okay then…Benji.” I rest my chin on his pectoral muscle and look up at him. My hands skate over his chest, toying with his tiny nipple and then down to the muscle sheathing his ribs, and to his hard abs. “So…now what?” I lace my words heavily with suggestion.

His eyes go to mine. “I don’t know.” A grin curves his lips. “Now what?”

I’m aching for him, but I don’t want to rush this. I want to enjoy him, I want to drag out every moment, want to tease out this delicious foreplay as long as possible. So I keep exploring his torso with my hand, the other tucked between us, my knee on his thigh, my foot against his calf. I run my palm up his side and over his belly, teasing lower and lower with each random circuit around his body. And I watch him the whole time. At first, his eyes remain on mine, dark and brooding and impenetrable. But as my hand slips lower and lower, his eyes gradually close.