Chapter 272: Hi, Your Killing Me Slowly

That’s all he needs. He reaches up with both hands, fingers finding the fabric of her shirt, and he eases it down, freeing her from the confines of the cloth. Then he just stops. Looks. His gaze goes glassy, unfocused, like a man who’s walked into church on accident and found he doesn’t want to leave.

"Hi," he says, to her breasts specifically, which startles a laugh out of her.

"Hi yourself," she manages, though her breath catches when his thumb grazes the underside of one curve, testing the weight like he’s checking if this is real.

He doesn’t answer right away. Can’t. His throat works, and he swallows hard, and the sound he makes is low and helpless, like something’s been knocked loose in his chest. The soft skin, the full roundness, the way her nipples are already pebbled from the air, from his stare, from the way he’s looking at her like she’s the only thing in the room worth looking at.

"You’re killing me," he says, voice rough. "Slowly. On purpose."

"Not on purpose." She threads her fingers through his hair, tugging gently. "Okay, maybe a little on purpose."

He laughs against her collarbone, breath hot, and the sound of it rolls straight through her. Then he dips lower, nose brushing the soft valley of her cleavage, and he breathes her in, long and slow, filling his lungs with the smell of her skin, something like warm sugar and crushed jasmine, undercut by the muskier heat of her arousal building between them, thickening the air.

He exhales in a groan that she feels more than hears, vibrating against her ribs.

"Ah, yes," he murmurs into her skin. "This is the best ever. Ten out of ten. No notes."

"No notes?" Her voice comes out breathless, amused. "Not even one small critique?"

"Maybe one." He lifts his head just enough to look up at her, chin propped against her sternum, the picture of a man who has found exactly where he belongs. "You should probably do this every day. For my health."

"Your health."

"Cardiovascular benefits. I read about it somewhere." He presses a kiss to the curve of her breast, slow, deliberate in a way that has nothing to do with doctors or studies and everything to do with how his hands have started to tremble slightly where they rest against her ribs.

She cards her fingers through his hair again, scratching lightly at his scalp, and feels him shudder under the touch, a full-body response he doesn’t bother hiding.

"You’re ridiculous," she whispers.

"I’m thorough." He noses back into her cleavage, nuzzling, pressing kisses to skin that’s never been kissed quite like this, reverent, unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be and nothing else he’d rather be doing. "There’s a difference."

He could stay here forever, face pressed between her breasts, breathing her in, feeling the soft weight of them against his cheeks, his jaw, his mouth, memorizing the shape of her like he intends to be tested on it later. But his hands have started to wander, restless, skimming down the curve of her waist, and something in him, call it hunger, need, the sheer fact of her, bare and trembling and his, pulls him toward more.

He starts with his tongue. A slow, wet lick across the curve of one breast, tasting her skin, salt and sweetness, and she shivers above him. He kisses her, open-mouthed, deliberate, pressing his lips to the swell of her flesh again and again, working his way toward one nipple while his hand cups the other, thumb dragging slow circles around the areola. He nibbles. Gentle at first, just the edge of his teeth catching skin, then a little harder, a little more insistent, and she gasps. Her head throws back. The sound she makes, a moan that starts deep in her throat and spills out open and raw, goes straight to his cock, makes it throb, makes it strain harder against his pants.

She starts moving. Her hips roll, and she’s dry humping him through his pants, grinding down on him in a rhythm that makes his vision blur. She’s riding him like a horse, her hips shifting up, pressing down, dragging the seam of her pants across his abdomen, across the hard ridge of his cock, pressing her cunt directly into it. Then she pushes her ass back, rocks her hips in a grinding circle, and the friction is devastating. His hands grip her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, trying to hold on, trying to keep himself together while she moves like that.

"Yes," he breathes against her breast. "That’s it. That’s it."

He sucks her nipple into his mouth. Draws it in deep, flicks his tongue against the hardened peak, then bites down, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to make her cry out, just hard enough to leave a mark. He pulls back, watches the wet shine of his saliva on her skin, sees the faint red impression of his teeth, and then he dives back in. Sucking. Nibbling. His mouth is everywhere, one breast, then the other, kissing and biting and licking, leaving traces of himself on her, hickies blooming purple and pink across the soft skin, bite marks that say mine, mine, mine without words.

She’s still grinding. Still riding him in slow, devastating circles, and the pressure is building in him fast, too fast, coiling tight at the base of his spine, his balls drawing up, his cock aching where it’s trapped. He groans, long and low, the sound muffled against her chest.

"Fuuuck, Dove," he manages, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips still brushing her skin. "You’re going to make me cum through my pants at this rate."

She slows. Not stopping, never fully stopping, but slowing enough that the rhythm breaks, and he feels her lean down, feels her breath warm against his ear.

"Oh," she says. Her voice is teasing, light, breathless. "Are you now?"

She reaches between them. Her hand finds the waistband of his pants, and she works it, tugging, pulling, freeing him, and when she pulls his cock out, it springs up hard and heavy between them, thick and long, the head flushed dark and leaking. She wraps her hand around it. Or tries to. Her fingers don’t quite close all the way around his girth, and he hears her exhale sharply.

"Wow," she says, and there’s something genuine in it, something almost awed. "I keep forgetting how huge it is."

He smirks. Presses his face back into her chest, finds a spot on the underside of one breast, and sucks a hickey into the skin, hard and deliberate, leaving a dark bruise. He bites the curve of her, teeth pressing crescents into her flesh, and his voice comes out smug and warm against her skin.

"I’m glad you like it."

His hands find her hips. He grips her there, fingers curling around the bones, and he lifts her, pulls her up off his cock, holds her above him so she’s hovering, suspended by his hands and the strength of his arms. She’s ready. He can feel it in the way her body shifts, the way her legs part wider, the way her breath catches in anticipation. She thinks she’s about to get fucked. Ploughed. She thinks he’s going to pull her down onto his cock and bury himself inside her.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he wiggles. Shifts his body downward, sliding beneath her, and then his face is between her thighs. His eyes look up at her. His nose is inches from her cunt, and he can smell her, rich, musky, intoxicating, and the sight of her above him, looking down with wide, surprised eyes, makes his mouth water.

He doesn’t wait. He leans up and presses his mouth to her.

The first taste of her floods his senses, slick, salt, sweetness, and he groans into her, the vibration of it traveling through her body. His tongue finds her clit, swollen and sensitive, and he licks it, slow, broad, a flat drag of his tongue that makes her jerk above him. She moans. Her hands find the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, gripping tight, and she holds him against her.