Unlike the other times he’d brought me to climax, this time he didn’t draw it out, didn’t chase the second release. Instead he let my legs drop, and stood. I opened my eyes, watched as he pulled several condoms from his back pocket and tossed all but one to the nightstand.
Ensnaring my gaze, he dropped his pants, ripped open the square packet with his teeth, and smoothly rolled a condom down his length.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked gruffly, reaching for my knees again and spreading my legs.
I shook my head, too stunned by what was happening to give voice to my consent. Also, I was impressed at his condom-rolling skills. I mean, he was super fast.
He paused. “Sienna?”
“Don’t stop,” I breathed, choking on desire and amazement.
With sure movements, he placed a knee on the bed and shifted his hands to my hips, lifting me, sliding his length against my sensitive center. I shuddered and writhed, reaching for him, feeling empty. Then, with a graceful roll of his hips, he entered me.
Slowly at first and not all the way. He took his time, torturing me as he stretched my swollen flesh, though his eyes were blazing. Once again, the intensity there burned. And this time I felt branded.
“Jethro,” I moaned, still reaching for him, near panic with my need to touch him.
Finally, finally he bent forward, smoothly lowering my hips to the bed and planking over me. I greedily touched him everywhere, wanting his skin, his warm chest against mine. But he continued to hold himself at a distance, rolling his hips like a gifted dancer. He didn’t thrust. He rocked. His movements were fluid, stroking me with the most intimate part of himself. It was maddening and so unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
It was perfection.
The view of his arms and chest and stomach bracing his weight while he expertly rocked into my body had me gasping and closing my eyes. I felt him everywhere, though our bodies met only where I lay my hands and where he made love to me.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He made love like he walked. Like he spoke. Like he lived. With complete confidence and artless self-assurance. It was straightforward, passionate, and beautiful.
It broke something in me, something I didn’t consciously know existed. A wall I’d built with jokes, flippant comebacks, and careless shrugs. He broke my shield against all those who’d ever criticized my inability to fit in or conform.
Because what he thought mattered.
How he touched me, how he saw me, what he said, and how he spoke to me mattered.
I wanted to please him.
I wanted to drive him crazy, open myself to him, trust him completely.
I wanted to be truly vulnerable.
I wanted him to dominate and cherish and use my body.
I wanted him to want me, need me.
I wanted him satisfied but insatiable, always craving more. Always thinking of me.
With those thoughts spiraling through my mind, tears in my eyes, and frantic longing in my heart, I came apart again, his name tumbling from my lips over and over like a plea.
“I love you,” he growled, kissing my face, my neck, my chest. As my body intuitively tightened around his, his movements quickened but were no less graceful and hypnotic.
“I love you,” I echoed, and then repeated, “I love you.”
And then he captured my mouth with his, and he came. Jethro Winston was my forever person. I would never be strong enough to let him go.
CHAPTER 31
“We have faith that there is purpose. We hope for things we can't see. We believe there are lessons in loss, power in love, and that we have within us the potential for a beauty so magnificent, our bodies can't contain it.”
― Amy Harmon, Making Faces
~Jethro~
Everything was going according to plan, just in the wrong order.
But that was fine. I’d arrived with an agenda. I could now cross off the second item on my list.
We were lying on her bed above the sheets, facing each other, kissing, petting, and getting worked up all over again. I was naked, but she still had her camisole around her waist. I wanted to remove it so I could see and touch her entire gorgeous body.
I started lifting the top and she stilled my movements, the look in her eyes snagging my attention. She looked worried.
“You can tell a joke if you want,” I offered, my voice rough because speaking sense wasn’t coming easy, not after what we’d just done. Not with what we were still doing.
Her eyebrows bounced upward. “Why would I do that?”
“Because that’s what you do when you’re anxious about something.” I palmed her breast, loving how it overflowed in my hand, and I had big hands. Really big hands.
Even though her skin held a flush from our earlier lovemaking, the pink intensified, and she ducked her head.