I shuddered, unable to comply. My nails were anchored to his shoulders. I whimpered, "Please, Matt. Please. I need you to feel good, too."
A tremor overtook him, followed by a desperate growl as he hooked his fingers into my underwear and tugged them down my legs. His movements were urgent, lacking finesse.
But it was perfect, the sign I craved. His frenetic desire was perfect as it heightened mine.
"Take off your dress," he demanded, removing his outer shirt, leaving him in his white tee.
I had to lean forward, clumsily reaching for, then finding the pull of my zipper under my arm. Once it was undone, his hands were there, pushing it over my head and tossing it to where his jacket and tie were, discarded ages ago.
He pulled me forward by wrapping one strong arm around my waist, nipping and suckling my breasts through my bra. Laying me back on the couch atop his dress shirt, he tugged one strap of my bra down my shoulder, exposing me, sliding his hand around to unhook it as his mouth both worshipped and tortured my body with decadent kisses and bites.
"Take this off." He tugged at the loose bra.
Matt's large hands squeezed and massaged and fondled while I pulled the offending garment down my arms, then lifted his T-shirt, needing the feel of him, wanting his skin flush against mine.
He leaned back, evading me, his eyes blazing a trail over my bare skin as I instinctively covered myself. He pulled my arms away from my body, his unapologetic gaze moving from my breasts to my stomach, then lower, licking his lips.
"Matt," I pleaded.
His eyes lifted to mine abruptly, hooded and sharp, as if gripped by a sudden thought, an acute obsession. He leaned forward, his hand moving between my legs, parting me, stroking me.
I cried out at the contact I craved, rolling my hips, gripping his strong shoulders for purchase as he demanded on a growl, "This will not be the only time."
I nodded, panting, feeling empty, needing more. I wanted to touch him, stroke him, and drive him mad like he was so expertly doing to me. And the worry persisted, that maybe I couldn't. That somehow the pleasure I could give to him would fall short of his expectations.
"Tell me how badly you want me inside you," he ordered, bending to bite my neck, then soothed the sting with his tongue, adding, "How badly you want me to fuck you."
Whoa . . . !
All the air left my lungs in a whoosh at his unexpected sexy talk, my head lolling to the side, offering more of myself. I'd never been a dirty talker, maybe I never had the confidence to do so. But something about it sounded so essential in that moment. So perfect. I needed his rough voice. I needed the brazen harshness of his words. They calmed the voices of doubt in my head.
"Do you want me, Marie? Because I want you. You're so wet, is that for me?"
I couldn't speak, so I nodded, a keening sound slipping past my lips. His fingers at my center were a gentle contradiction to the ravenous kisses he lavished on my breasts, then stomach, then hip, then lower.
"Do you want my mouth on you? On your pussy? I can't wait to taste you."
God, yes! The affirmation of his words, of his want, they both soothed and excited me. I couldn't breathe, I could barely see, and my heart galloped between my ears. Every filthy word out of his mouth drove me mad with desire.
Holy shit.
Who was this guy?
And who was I?
I watched his progress, the sight of his head moving between my legs, kissing my inner thigh, skimming his lips along the sensitive skin until he parted me with his thumbs.
My toes curled, then pointed, every muscle in my body tense. Usually, I wanted to give head first, to make sure my partner was feeling good.
But as Matt licked me, groaning, his sounds effectively silenced my concerns about his arousal and renewed thoughts of perishing. I might die from pleasure. The flat of his tongue lapped leisurely, tasting, savoring. I moaned. Loudly. I couldn't help it. Convinced I was on the brink of madness, I ached. I hurt. The carnal sounds of his mouth comingling with my hedonistic sighs made me restless.
"I want you," I panted, my fingers in his hair, grabbing and pulling and pushing.
He groaned, slipping two fingers inside me, stroking me in tempo with his tongue.
"Not this way," I implored, reaching for him, clawing at his shirt, determined to take it off this time.
I wanted him face to face, I wanted his body moving against mine, I wanted his grunts and sighs, the tense and release of his muscles.
"Please, please." I was so close, so close. I panicked. I didn't want to be selfish, and coming now felt unfair to him. I wanted his pleasure.