For The One(78)

And even though I didn’t respond, Jenna is kissing me on the mouth now, just like Marion kissed Indy. And just like Indy, I’m not pushing her away. Neither of us are idiots, after all. We both know a good thing when it’s happening to our lips.

My mouth opens and her tongue slips in at almost the same moment, as if we’d agreed ahead of time that that’s what we’d do. It’s as if she knows all the entrance procedures and pass codes already. My barriers have deserted me.

She also seems to know how each stroke of her pretty pink tongue undoes me. I love how she tastes me, and I want to taste her, more and more. And the stronger this desire grows, the harder it is to imagine myself stopping what we’re doing. Because it feels so good.

So good.

Jenna is now running her hands over my chest as she kisses me, but unlike last time, she’s silent. I’m beginning to feel the danger of this, because if she’s not talking, then she’s not forcing me to concentrate on what she’s saying and thereby distracting me.

Now her hand is on my stomach, moving lower and lower as her tongue continues to stroke mine. Her palm glides over my navel, dropping to rest on my thigh. And I can’t help it. When she touches me there, no matter how lightly and how quickly, I suck in a breath.

Heat streaks through my belly, burning me up inside. I’m glad she can’t see the thoughts inside my head—thoughts of her hands on me, her mouth on me.

She’s hesitating, her hand stroking my thigh through my pant leg. I want her to touch me more, but I also want to push her hand away. This feeling is so powerful that it’s threatening to control me, and the most frightening part is that I don’t even care.

My hands are threaded through her pale hair, holding her head to mine. I have no memory of how they even got there. All I know is that I want her lips on mine and our tongues tangling—for hours. Then her hand moves, sliding back over my erection.

And it stays there. I freeze, unsure of what to do.

“Wil, please let me touch you,” she whispers.

Let her. As if I could tell her to stop.

I lie back against the couch, pulling her with me so that our mouths are still connected. She’s half beside me and half on top of me, and her hand is fondling me through the thin material of my khaki pants. I wonder if I can stop this before we actually have sex. I know I’ve drawn that line in the sand, hoping that it will protect me.

But for now, I have the overwhelming urge to touch her. I want to feel her breasts in my hands, feel her nipples harden beneath my fingertips.

When my hands find her breasts, she sighs again, and I rub her nipples until I feel that bead-like texture as they harden. I’m fascinated that I’ve learned this about her body after just one time. I know what she likes, and I want to learn more.

I want to know her body like I know the canvas of a project I’ve been working on for months—living with it, staring at it, aware of its textures and contours, of the colors and blending required to fill it up.

I want to fill her up.

I might not be able to tell when she’s being snarky, but I can read these signs and know exactly what turns her on. And I wonder if this process is the same every time. I’ll have to figure out what gets me the best results most consistently.

She’s stroking me faster now, and it feels like the friction is starting the process of combustion deep within me. Each stroke of her hand is like a shock of electricity straight to the center of my being.

“I like touching you, Wil,” she says. Her voice sounds different. Quiet and harsh at the same time.

I swallow what feels like a massive lump in my throat. I sure like it, too.

“Do you like it? When I touch you?”

“Yes,” I groan.

Jenna’s lips hover over mine. “Good. I want to make you feel good, Wil.”

I reach down and pull up the hem of her shirt—like she showed me last time. She sucks in a breath and then lifts her arms so I can pull the shirt off, which I do with gusto. The lacy bra covering her beautiful breasts is the next barrier, and I haven’t the slightest clue how to remove it. But I’ve been dying to taste her nipples again, so I push the lace aside and my mouth connects with one in seconds. She arches her back and threads her fingers through my hair.

“That feels so good, Wil. You make me feel so good.” My tongue traces the outline of her beaded nipple, over and over again. I suck fiercely and she cries out. A good cry, I think? She isn’t pulling away.

I slip my finger inside the other cup of her bra and toy with the other nipple. She’s straddling me now, rocking against me. Each time her pelvis presses against mine, I become more and more aroused.