Page 41 of Wish Upon A Star

In a single rough gesture, she rips off her tank top—arms crossing at her midsection to grasp the hem, then tearing it up and off and tossing it aside recklessly. As if she’s worried the courage to do so would dissipate any moment.

Her skin is the pale color of cream, with liberal freckles like stars, and I find myself leaning close to kiss one freckle, and another, and another, as if to link them in a constellation. “So beautiful,” I murmur. Another kiss, another freckle, from ribcage up higher, between her breasts. “So, so beautiful.”

Her hands clutch into my hair, spastic and strong. “Oh god, Wes.”

I look up at her as my lip stutters across her flesh. Already peaked, her nipples tighten further to diamond points. Her breathing halts. Mouth open, jaw dropped. Brows drawn yet eyes wide. “Okay?” I whisper, seeking affirmation at every step.

She nods jerkily. No longer grasping fistfuls of hair, her hands now cup my head, gentle and tender. Is there a hint of guidance, in her touch? Pulling me closer, hinting at a nudge toward her breast. I smile. Cover her breast with my mouth; slight, soft, and firm, it’s a warm globe against my lips. She gasps, a sensual, shaky sound. I flick my tongue against her nipple, and she whimpers something that sounds like my name.

The other one, then. Tongue flicking, circling. Her back arches, pressing her into my mouth.

I pull away, and her damp nipples beg for more. They’re upturned at the tips, with quarter-sized areolae a few shades darker than the pink of her nipples. Freckles dot her breasts liberally. “I love these,” I whisper, kissing a freckle and another and another.

“The—the freckles? Or my boobs?”

“Both. But I was referring to the freckles.” I kiss from freckle to freckle across her chest. “Maybe I’ll just follow the trail of freckles across your whole body until I’ve kissed every single one.”

She whimpers when my tongue drags over her nipple again. “That would…ohhh, oh oh—that would take a long time. I’ve got…a lot of…of freckles.”

I look up at her. “I’ve got time.”

I want to make her feel good. So good. Better than she’s ever felt. I caress her breasts with my hands while kissing her skin, touching my tongue to her myriad freckles on cream-and-silk skin. I drift my touch down, then. From breasts to waist, to hips. Clutch her buttocks, and then the backs of her thighs. Run my hands up the front of her legs, then, with my kisses somewhere just below her breasts but above her abdomen. Hook my fingers in the elastic of her underwear, and her breathing catches on a whimper—but this one sounds nervous, almost fearful, so I release. Over the garment then. Her breathing resumes, still ragged with arousal.

Touch her hip bones. Kiss her belly.

Her hands remain on my head, holding me, following me as I kiss her here and there. I drag a fingertip down from her belly button, and she freezes, tenses, fingers clawing into my scalp.

“Oh god, Wes,” she breathes. She knows where my touch is leading.

Does she want it?

I feel like she wants me to lead her, to take her perhaps out of her comfort zone. She’s not stopping me… and she did, earlier. Slowed us down. And then asked to resume. She’s proven that she’s able and willing to communicate with me what she wants and doesn’t want.

I slide my fingertip, just my index finger of my right hand, over the band of her underwear. Slowly,sooooslowly. Monitoring her every breath, her every expression, I slide my finger lower and lower, millimeter by millimeter.

Until I feel the silk give way, slightly, when I reach the apex of her sex.

Her eyes are open, wide open. Watching.

Lip in her teeth.

Not breathing—and then, all once, her breathing resumes but in short, sharp, shallow gasps.

Down the seam of her sex, over the silk of her underwear, I slide my finger, slowly and slowly. Then, my touch halts, and returns upward.

“Ohhh god, Wes.”

“I can stop, if you want.” I don’t quite smile or smirk, not meaning to tease her. I know she doesn’t want me to.

“Mmmm…” this an inconclusive noise, a hum, neither yes nor no. A shake of her head, a sliver of movement in the negative. “Mmm-mmm. No. Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Sure?” I ask.

She nods, again a barely perceptible motion. “I…I like it.”

“You want more?”

She jerks her chin down. Licks her lips. Nervous. Excited. Aroused. A little afraid. “Yes.”