“Waking up in bed with a woman,” he rasped against her skin, voice as rough as his face, “should involve far less clothing.” As if to illustrate his point, the hand that wasn’t on her ass snaked up her shirt and around to her back. He was searching for her bra clasp. Locating it, he expertly unfastened it, and then the hand moved around to the front and gathered a handful of breast. It was a slow assault from all directions—one hand on her ass, the other kneading a breast, while his hips continued to grind against her. “But you’re right,” he whispered. “I probably should go to work.” An evil grin blossomed, and he gave a low, hard thrust that nudged her a startling amount of the way toward orgasm. And they were both still fully clothed.
Which suddenly seemed like a problem. “No way,” she said, pushing herself off him, but this time only so she could slide her hands under his shirt. When they made contact with his taut abs he hissed, as if she were burning him. “I want my money’s worth on our little arrangement,” she said. It was the simple, honest truth.
Sitting up, he shucked off his T-shirt, jeans, and boxer briefs before going to work on her clothing. Then he gently pushed her down so that she was on her back. “I won the race, remember?” Without waiting for a response, he kneeled over her.
And then his hands began to roam. Slowly, languidly, they made their way over every inch of her neck and down to her breasts. He flicked her nipples and then lowered his mouth to kiss away the tension his fingers had wrought. His hungry mouth had the opposite effect, though. As his tongue worked her nipple, she felt it in her core. A coil was twisting inside her, tighter and tighter, and the more tightly she ratcheted up, the more she needed him inside her, to ease the heavy ache that had settled between her legs.
“You like that, do you?” he whispered.
She found his shaft with her hand and stroked it, coaxing a ragged groan from him even as he continued to work her nipple with his tongue and teeth. Shamelessly, she thrust her hips up as she tried to guide his cock toward her, a clear invitation. He moved her hand off, and she let loose an involuntary cry of frustration.
“Not yet,” he whispered, letting his hand drift down and tangle in her curls. Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more—when she would come from the feel of his mouth on her breast alone, he moved his lips to her other nipple. But the relief was only momentary. As he took the second nipple into his mouth, he parted her folds and dragged a finger from her clit to her opening. “Oh my God, you’re so wet,” he choked out, sounding half strangled.
“There are condoms in the bedside drawer,” she said, hoping to urge him onward.
“Patience,” he said, having gained control of his voice.
“No,” she said, though she knew it was pointless to argue—he won the race, and he wasn’t going to give up control.
And so on and on it went. He would take her to the brink and retreat just long enough for her head to clear so that she was able to fully grasp how totally and completely frustrated he was making her with the ceaseless torture. He’d allow her to touch him, but only a little. Then he’d groan and push her hands and mouth away and renew his measured assault. He wasn’t kidding about the “in charge” business. He wasn’t being stereotypically dominant, though. In fact, it was all very disciplined and controlled and slow—unlike their past couplings. But he was definitely playing her like a violin.
Then, finally—finally—after it seemed hours had passed, he had two fingers inside her, stroking her. She lifted her head up from the pillow, enough to make eye contact. He nodded a little, as if acknowledging a message she wasn’t consciously sending, and pressed his thumb down on her clit. The cry that ripped from her throat sounded otherworldly to her own ears, like it was coming from someone—or something—else.
The aftershocks were still quaking though her when she became dimly aware of him rolling on a condom, and then he was pushing inside her with a guttural cry of his own. She surged up to meet him, closing her eyes tightly and wishing she never had to leave this nest, this cocoon where nothing else mattered.
…
It was a long time before Jack came back down to earth. He’d intended to give her what she needed—a slow, attentive fuck to take her mind off her mother. A caring fuck, even, if he were that kind of person. He’d wanted to show her that she was worth paying attention to. Because whatever happened at the end of this incredible friends-with-benefits thing, she was a good person. She deserved to be happy and well-treated.