Page 9 of Making a Mountain Man (Summer in the Pines #16)
Jill
L ying on my back, looking up at miles of Wesley’s touchable, bare skin was a dream come true going back to when I was a teenager who knew nothing about sex.
Not that I claimed to be an expert now, but at the very least I was confident enough to ask for what I wanted, and his lips on my skin was a hell of a good place to start.
I dug my heels into the mattress, the blanket cool under my overheated skin, and crab walked up the bed. Wesley followed on hands and knees, stalking his way up my body with heat in his eyes and a drool-worthy bulge in his boxers.
“I can’t believe I have you in my bed after all these years,” he said, bringing his lips to my neck and kissing his way down to my collarbone. “It doesn’t feel real.”
I reached my hand out and cupped him, taking hold of his length and giving him a slow stroke. “Feel real now?” His only reply was a grunt, then his hands were on the hem of my shirt and it was sailing across the room.
“It won’t feel completely real until we’re both naked.”
We kissed and touched, our movements growing more frantic.
I managed to hook my toes into the band of his boxers and shove them over his hips, leaving me a nice view of an even nicer ass.
As soon as the fabric cleared his cock and it sprang free, he canted his hips against my center and every nerve ending in my core gave a little cheer. “Do that again.”
He brought his hands around my back, unhooking my bra as he ground himself between my legs.
We both made a gasping sound and then my panties were gone.
Now it was just us, skin to skin, chest to chest. He slid down my body enough that he could tease my nipples with his mouth and I laid back and enjoyed the sensation.
His mouth was hot and wet, his tongue sinful, his beard scratchy in the best way.
I could smell sawdust in his hair where his head moved against my chest and I was torn between the impulse to let him worship my body, or flip the script and taste every inch of his bare skin.
Did I really have to decide?
Would we only do this one time? I doubted it enough that when he moved his mouth farther down my stomach and shoved my thighs open with his wide shoulders, I buried my hands in the soft strands of his hair and directed him where I wanted him most.
He chuckled against my skin but let me move his head until the first swipe of his tongue landed right against my already sensitive clit.
“Fuck,” I murmured. I was a journalist. I wrote for a living. I’d spent four years in college learning how to be articulate, witty and accurate. With all that expertise, I could be sure that the word fuck was the only one that could describe the feeling of his tongue on me.
Always a quick study, Wesley continued slicking his tongue over my center, varying the pressure but never missing that one spot I needed him most. It was rare for my mind to just quiet down and let me be in the moment but that is exactly what his touch did to me.
I was reduced to a moaning blob of Jill, mumbling praise and gripping his hair like a lifeline.
An orgasm teased at the edge of my senses and I shut my eyes tight, afraid it might skirt around the edges but never actually hit.
I’d been there more than once and it was more frustrating than Monday morning traffic.
One of his big callused hands came to rest between my hip bones and he skated it up my chest, seeming to touch my skin just because he could.
That thought was enough to push me over the edge.
My back bowed and he clamped one arm over my hips to keep his face right between my thighs until the orgasm started to fade.
Before I’d caught my breath, he grabbed me around one knee and flipped me like I weighed nothing.
He lifted my hips with one hand and shoved a pillow under them with the other.
“You look so fucking sexy like this,” he said, his hands sliding up the backs of my thighs before coming to rest on my ass cheeks.
I wiggled my hips. “You going to do something about it?”
Wesley rooted around in his night stand for a moment before I heard the telltale sound of a condom wrapper opening.
A moment later, he leaned over me, hands coming to rest on either side of my shoulders, and slid into me in one smooth stroke.
My arms were laying uselessly by my sides, my face was mashed into the mattress and my ass was in the air.
He rested his hips against me once he was fully inside and the stretch was unbelievable.
“Shit, that feels good.” I could feel his forehead resting against the middle of my back. His body heat surrounded me, and I was caged in a place I never wanted to get out of anyway. To encourage him to move I squeezed my inner muscles and smirked when I felt his muscles contract in response.
“Oh, you want to play like that, huh?”
I squeezed them again.
He chuckled but it was strained. “Alright, as the lady demands.”
He pulled out of me until only the head remained inside, then snapped his hips forward.
I groaned as the deep contact set my nerves on fire. He did it again with the same result. I could feel every glorious inch when he moved out followed by an intense burst of heat and pleasure. I was lighting up like a Christmas tree inside in a way I wasn’t sure I ever had.
He leaned over me, his chest almost resting on my back, his hands up over my shoulders and started snapping his hips faster, over and over. I scrambled to get my arms above my head, bracing them against the headboard so I could push back against his thrusts.
Sweat pricked my skin as we continued in this backwards tug of war, both chasing the same goal.
His breath ghosted over the skin of my neck.
Being on my stomach I couldn’t reach my clit and without some sort of stimulation, I normally would never be able to finish.
Somehow I could feel the pressure building as Wesley worked his hips.
“Fuck, I’m going to come,” he mumbled, picking up speed more than I thought possible. “Can you come like this?”
Between my face smashed into the mattress and my arms straining to hold my body in place my answer was an incoherent mumble.
Whether he understood or not, he acted on it, managing to wedge one of his big hands between my body and the mattress enough to slide it between my folds.
It was sloppy, uncoordinated, sweaty and feral, but when his muscles all locked up and he let out a strangled cry, fuck if I didn’t follow him right over the edge.