Page 30 of Goode Vibrations

“I mean fine, I’ll play along.” She laughed.

“I’ve said, I’m not—”

“I know,” she cut in. “I just mean we can do things your way. For now.”

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, though, just so you’re aware.”

Another laugh, but it was low, soft. Her eyes flicked to mine, slid down my body. Her tongue dragged over her lips as she looked at me, as if her hunger for my body was a nearly irresistible force. “Just pretend I’m ice cream,” she suggested, smirking at me with hooded eyes dancing with innuendo. “Take your time eating me.”

The blatant suggestion set fire to my blood. I prowled across the grass to her. Stood over her, close enough that her breasts brushed my chest. “You know how I eat ice cream, now?” I whispered. “As slow as possible. I eat it one…slow…lick…at a time.” Her breath caught, hitched, and she swallowed hard. “But I don’t justlickit. Oh no. I use my whole mouth. Tongue, lips, teeth. I’ve usually gotice creamall over my mouth when I’m through. All messy. Then I wipe that away with my fingers and lick it off one by one.” I snagged her wrist, brought her index finger to my mouth, slid it in, closed my lips over it, and dragged her finger slowly through my lips, tonguing it every inch of the way. “Like that.”

Her nipples hardened against my chest. “You must really like ice cream.”

“I fuckingloveice cream.” I still had her hand in mine, and I now set about licking between her fingers, licking suggestively at the V where they met. “But you know, traveling like I do, I don’t get to have it for long periods of time. For example, it’s beenmonthssince I’ve had ice cream. And I’m fuckin’dyin’ for it.”

Another hard swallow, her throat bobbing, lashes blinking slowly, eyes searching, flicking. “Holy shit, Errol.”

I’d talked myself into trouble. Not trouble, because there was no reason we couldn’t do what we wanted, both of us being sober, consenting adults. I just…I was slavering for her, now. All the talk of ice cream, the suggestion, the innuendo, and now the teasing weight of her breasts against my chest and the dimpling hard nubs of her nipple piercings…

Fuck.

I needed…something.

One hand crept out, touched her hip over her skirt. She held my eyes, didn’t move—just waited me out. Slowly, I gathered the thin soft cotton of her skirt material in my hand, lifting the hem ever so gradually. Just on one side, with one hand. I let my eyes slip down to where the rising hem bared her ankle, then calf, then knee, then lower thigh, then hip. I kept expecting to see the lace or cotton of her underwear, but as I held the bunched fabric in my fist, her entire buttock, hip, and thigh bared in profile, I realized she wasn’t wearing any. Not a stitch of undergarment, not a bra, not underwear. Daring girl. I released the skirt and cupped the outside of her hip—smooth, warm, soft. The softest, most delicate skin I’d ever touched. She inhaled quietly, a short intake of air through her nose, eyes remaining on mine, otherwise utterly motionless.

I let that one hand curl around to cradle her ass cheek…and at the hot silken heft of it in my hand, my cock went ramrod stiff. I knew she felt it, the way our bodies were touching, thigh and hips and chest. She gave no indication, didn’t move, but her eyes widened.

I held her buttock in my hand, just savored the feel of it, the reality of this extraordinary privilege, to be able to touch this perfect woman, this gloriously gorgeous creature, this woman with a body that could start wars. I kneaded the flesh, the muscle. Smoothed it. Then brought my touch away, around to her hip, because as amazing as it was, her ass wasn’t what I wanted in that moment.

What I wanted wasn’t to take, but togive.

I couldn’t help but lick my lower lip in anticipation as I slowly, gradually slid my hand around the outside of her hip, over hipbone. No, not a scrap of underwear, just smooth bare skin under that thin skirt. Close-trimmed fuzz where her thighs met—I felt it scritching under my fingers.

She sucked in a harsh breath, then, as I turned my fingertips downward, and delved between her thighs—her skin everywhere was silken, but there? Her upper, inner thighs, where they touched to hide her delicate, soaked center? What’s softer than silk? What’s smoother, more delicate, more fragile, more lovely? I don’t know. I just know I’ve never felt such skin as hers. She swallowed, blinked finally, eyes wide, searching.

She moved, finally. Her left foot slid aside, and her hands lifted to rest on my shoulders, and just like that, her core was exposed to my touch. Welcoming. Inviting.

She held her breath as I traced a line over her sex. I held my own as I drew that line downward, over her seam. And when I held my breath, she hissed hers out. I growled low in my chest as I drew my finger up, then, over her sex again, and delved in. That was when she whimpered, hips shifting forward eagerly, impulsively.

God, such delicate wet beauty, to touch her like this. Such a wild privilege, to feel her. Such brazen, brave boldness, the way she let me slowly explore her this way.

Slicking in, delving in. Pulling out and smearing the juices of her arousal over her plump, taut lips. Over the tight hard nub of her clit, making her shiver, flinch, groan.

It took a moment, maybe two. A swipe, a delve inward, another circle, and she was gasping, writhing against me.

“Already?”

She nodded, biting her lip. “Yeah.” Another helpless whimper. “But don’t let that stop you.”

Even in the throes of a slow, rolling orgasm, she had that quippy attitude.

“Stop me?” I grinned down her. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

She groaned, and her forehead thunked forward against my chest. “Oh thank fuck.”

7

Poppy