I inhaled sharply as he slid his fingers lower and into my leggings, grabbing handfuls of my backside. And then, with his pelvis pressed against my lower belly, I felt how much he’d missed me. Instinctively, I brought my fingers around to the front of his jeans between us and cupped him. He hissed, his body growing tense and still as I rubbed with the base of my palm.
My head swimming became brain drowning and I moaned, shifting an inch away and reaching for the buckle of his belt. His breathing quickened and so did mine, and when I finally, finally circled my hand around his length, we both shuddered.
I loved the feel of him, the dichotomy of hard and smooth, the involuntary, primitive, and yet controlled nature of his arousal. Taking action was always a choice. But the physical evidence of how Jethro saw me, how he desired me—wanted me—was raw and honest and impossible to deny.
I needed to feel him, taste him, consume him. In much the same way I’d hoped Jethro would be insatiable for me, I was—in that moment—insatiable for him. And something happened that had never happened to me before.
I actually wanted to give a man a blow job.
Not only did I want to do it, I felt like I might go batshit crazy if he didn’t let me do it. I felt the frantic need in my chest and the tips of my fingers, on my tongue and low in my belly. Armed with this need and intent on my goal, I began lowering myself to my knees, tugging his boxers and jeans down as I went.
But Jethro—who had been standing so still as I’d touched him, as though he’d been afraid the moment would disappear or prove to be a figment of his imagination—stopped me. His eyes flew open, just visible under the starlight. His searched mine and gripped my arms to halt my movements.
“Wait, wait. What are you doing?” His words were breathless and held an unmistakable air of panic.
“I’m heading downtown,” I answered, equally breathless.
He blinked at me, didn’t move, and said nothing.
So I pushed his jeans down his hips and moved to kneel.
He stopped me again.
“Don’t—”
I reached for him again, gripping the smooth, thick length of him and stroking, effectively cutting off his words. His eyes closed again and his forehead met mine, but he didn’t loosen his grip on my arms.
“Jethro, I want to.”
He groaned. It sounded tortured.
And perhaps thinking about my mother in that moment was a little weird, but I did. Specifically, I thought about her words, It’s good for a man’s soul to be tortured in this way.
Without thinking, I asked, “Are you afraid of temptation?”
He shook his head. “God, no. Just being with you, just seeing you. Fuck.” He mostly swallowed the expletive, his hips rolling in a way that made me think the movement was instinctual, then added on a rush, “You breathing tempts me.”
That made my heart do happy backflips and I smiled, feeling bolder.
Lowering my voice to the octave reserved for seduction, I pressed, “Then what are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then what—”
“I don’t want you to have any regrets.”
Oh, Jethro . . .
I removed his fingers from my arm and placed them on my shoulder. Then I lifted my chin and gave him a tender kiss, a gentle kiss. Paired with my tight, rough strokes I hoped it conveyed the weight of my affection, the complexity of my feelings.
“I will never regret you,” I whispered solemnly.
He released a shuddering sigh and I felt some of his tension drain away.
Those seemed to be the magic words, or maybe what I was doing inside his shorts was magical. Whatever it was, he didn’t try to stop me this time as I knelt on the cushion provided by the sleeping bags, bringing his shorts all the way down as I lowered myself, enjoying the feel of his legs as I skimmed my fingers over his thighs and behind his knees.
Darkness pressed in on us, cloaking my movements. Though I was greedy for the sight of him, the moonless night obscured his bare skin. But I could feel him, still heavy and hard and smooth. With no further prelude, I took him in my mouth and moaned.
I moaned because a bone-deep satisfaction warmed my blood as he filled me. With each pass of my lips and each of his ragged breaths, a growing fulfillment blossomed, ballooned, eliminating the void carved out by weeks of frustrated longing. Now I was able to indulge myself, I felt the full weight of my desire. My pent-up frustration dissolved.
I’d wanted to give without expectation of receiving.
I’d wanted to suffocate him with affection and touch.
I’d wanted to love him.
And so I did.
CHAPTER 27
“No effort that we make to attain something beautiful is ever lost.”