Page 53 of Not So Goode

Or more accurately, perhaps, he wasgoingto get my body in his hands no matter what, unless I stopped him.

I didn’t stop him.

I watched him, my eyes on his. Slowly, his hand palmed my breasts, and I sucked in a sharp breath, held it. My eyes were wide—his hand was so big, so rough, so gentle. He just held me, for a moment. Then his hand twisted, his scratchy palm scraping my sensitive nipple, and he lifted my breast, held it in his palm, cradling it. Thumb brushing my nipple, making it sing with ecstatic sensation.

I bit my lip. “Crow.”

“Yeah?”

I shrugged, shook my head, laughing softly. “Nothing, I just…” I swallowed. “I like that.”

“Yeah?”

I nodded. I moved over onto my back, offering him both breasts. He levered over me. We both watched his hands as he caressed and cradled and kneaded my breasts, flicking the nipples, making them hard, achy.

The blanket was rucked down at my shins, and I kicked it off, spreading myself bare and open on the bed, and watched as Crow looked at me—his eyes telling a story.

One of awe.

Fierce need.

Appreciation—for me, exactly as I was.

I would do anything to keep being looked at like that—the intense wonder in his gaze. Did that make me desperate? Maybe.

But in that moment I decided I would just go with it.

Maybe I was sex starved. Not for the act of sex, but for the things which, according to Crow, were supposed to go with it. The need, the desperation, the fiery ache.

And Crow made me feel those things.

Right now, I wanted another orgasm. I wanted his face in my thighs, his tongue in my sex. I wanted to come apart, to look down and see his big hard body between my legs, feel his scratchy stubble sandpapering against my inner thighs, his tongue lashing me to screaming climax.

I wanted it. Fuck, I wanted that.

I felt dirty. I felt wanton. I felt…sensual. Sexual. I felt needy.

He’d given me something last night. Unlocked something in me, and now I couldn’t put it back in its cage. It was out, and it demanded that I let it run wild.

His hand left my breast, stole down my sternum, over my belly. Teased my belly button, and then moved down further, hesitating inches above my sex, toying with the line where my pubic hair started, trimmed close but not shaved bare.

I instinctively felt the urge to bat his hand away, the reaction of a lifetime of…prudery. No, that wasn’t right. I wasn’t a prude. I enjoyed sex—that was the problem, really. I had always wantedmoreout of sex than I ever got, and had never possessed the requisite courage to demand it, ask for it, go get it. I wasn’t a prude, I was…sheltered. Repressed.

Undersexed.

His gaze softened, the sharp edges of sexual fervor gentling. “You’re thinkin’ a lot of deep thoughts over there, Charlie Goode.”

I nodded, but shrugged too. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Want my two cents?”

“Sure.”

“There’s a time for thinkin’, and a time for feeling. Gotta know which is which, and keep the two separate.” He paused. “Feeling, I mean physical feeling. But emotional, too. Thinking ain’t got much to do with either one, in my experience.”

“I’m a classic Type-A, overthinking, overachieving, check everything five times, schedule my whole life a year in advance, manage my days with checklists kind of girl. So to say I get lost in my head would be an understatement.”

“What do you want, right now?”