Hot as Puck(21)

Her forehead presses against mine as she grinds her hips in these little circles that quickly drive me out of my mind. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Doing what?” I bring my hand back to her breast, capturing her nipple through the thin linen and squeezing the puckered flesh between my fingers. “Dry humping on your couch?”

“Gross. That makes it sound disgusting, Justin.” She drags her teeth over my bottom lip in what I gather is supposed to be a punishment, but only makes me hotter.

“And see there? You bit me and no one’s bleeding.” I guide the strap of her dress down her shoulder. “In fact, I’d like it if you bit me some more. Would you like a list of all the places I’d like for you to bite me?”

“No,” she says, breath coming faster.

“Fine, then I’ll tell you all the places I want to bite you.”

“No, we—” Her words end in a sharp inhalation as I slip my hand under her shirt and up her bra, finding her bare nipple. And fuck, her skin is soft and hot and that sweet little tip is so hard all I want to do is to get it in my mouth.

“Right here.” I dig my fingers into her ass as I tease her tip with whisper soft brushes of my thumb. “First I’ll lick your nipple, suck you in my mouth until you’re begging me for more, and then I’ll bite you. Right here.” I pinch her tight, and she responds by rocking against my cock hard enough to make my head explode.

“Fuck, Libby, you make me so hot.” I haul her mouth back to mine, kissing her so hard our teeth grind against each other through our lips, while she writhes on top of me, growing wilder with every kiss, every touch, every roll of her nipple between my fingers.

It isn’t long before my cock is desperate for relief, weeping sad, lonely tears of pre-come and insisting he’s going to suffocate if I don’t get out of these fucking jeans. But this isn’t about me, or him; it’s about showing Libby she’s not the slightest bit weird or broken.

Somewhere in my lust-fogged head, I know she’s right. We shouldn’t be doing this. This is not good or wise, but who cares about good or wise when a beautiful woman is about to come? It doesn’t matter that we’re both still fully clothed and that I know I won’t be joining her. I still want Libby’s orgasm. I still crave the sound of her crying out because I got her off, because I gave her bliss and release and took control and made her sweet body do my bidding.

“Come for me, Libs,” I murmur into the shell of her ear as I gather her hair in my free hand, wanting to see her face when she goes. “Ride me until you fucking explode, babes.”

She shakes her head, but her cheeks are pink and her lips are already forming that “Oh, God” O-shape I know so well. I’ve seen it on the faces of more than my share of women, but I can’t remember the last time the sight of a woman on the brink made me this crazy, this desperate.

I need her orgasm, need it more than my next fucking breath.

I fist my fingers in her thick, silky hair, holding her still as I move my other hand to her ass, gripping the firm flesh of her bottom as I draw her pussy tighter to my cock. “That wasn’t a question, Libby.” I rock against her with smooth, controlled rolls of my hips, making sure the ridge of my erection is giving her clit everything I’ve got. “You’re going to come for me. You’re going to come so hard you’re going to have to change your panties when we’re done they’re going to be so fucking wet.”

“I can’t,” she gasps, hands pressed tight to my chest. “Oh God, Justin, I can’t. I can’t do this.”

Before I can insist that she can and she will—I won’t settle for anything less than her complete and profound release—she slips out of my arms. A moment later, she’s on her feet, running out of the living room.

“Libby, wait!”

I’m answered by a slamming door and a muffled plea. “Go away!”

I jump to my feet, wincing as I pause to adjust myself in my suddenly way-too-tight jeans, and hurry to her bedroom. I knock lightly on the closed door. “Come on, Libby, let me in. Let’s talk.”

But there is no response. I call her name again and again. I do a shitty job of apologizing, and then apologize again for being shitty at saying “I’m sorry” for almost making her come, but she doesn’t say a word.

I’m about to pop the lock on the door with an Allen wrench I found in her junk drawer—just to make sure she’s okay in there—when my phone buzzes in my back pocket.

It’s a text from Libby telling me that she’s gone and that by the time she comes back I should be, too, giving me proof positive that I’ve royally fucked up.