She walks over and stops in front of me. I position her between my legs and lay my head against her chest, listening to her heartbeat. It flutters, excited and nervous against my ear. My own pounds like a herd of stampeding horses is trying to escape from my chest.
With shaky fingers, I slide her sweater over her head. Underneath she wears a thin silky thing and no bra. Her pert nipples poke against the fabric. I run my hands up under the material, tracing the bumps of her spine, the jut of her shoulder blades. Her eyelids shutter down when I reach the tender base of the back of her neck.
I don’t want to rush this. I might not get another chance to touch her again.
The tiny strap of her top slides down her shoulder, the fabric snagging on one erect peak. My mouth waters, and I can’t wait another second without laying my mouth against her bare skin. I nudge the fabric down with my chin. She helps me by wriggling her arm out from the strap, first one and then the other.
I take another moment to admire her. “You’re beautiful,” I say, unable to keep the reverence out of my voice. “So beautiful.”
Her fingers find their way to my scalp, scratching and scraping through the strands then lightly pushing me forward.
I blow a stream of hot air against one nipple and then the other. She shudders, and it’s like a live electric feed running from her body into mine.
Fucking Christ, but I want her so damn bad.
I take one succulent tip into my mouth and cover the other with my hand. She’s smaller than I expected but twice as delicious, and as I swirl my tongue around her nipple, I can’t help but think she was made perfectly for me.
Her fingers sink into my scalp, pulling me closer. We both shift. I slide to the edge of the chair; she straddles me. I keep sucking, and she keeps pressing closer and closer.
There’s a moan that fills the air, a guttural sound of need and want. I don’t know if it’s mine or hers. It’s probably mine. In my life, I can’t remember ever wanting anything as much I want her.
I’ve hungered for wins on the field, championships, success, but never a person. Not until Luce.
19
Lucy
The suction on my nipples is making me dizzy. I can’t recall if I’ve ever felt this much pleasure from having my nips sucked. I swear I can feel it between my legs with each deep pull.
I never really doubted he’d be good in bed. He knows all too well how to use his body to maximize its athletic ability. And sex is an athletic event. But guys can be selfish, and no matter how well they know their own bodies, it doesn’t mean they care to know how to work another’s body.
But Matt isn’t selfish in any way. He’s incredibly giving, and I enjoy being a recipient of that benevolence right now. Any other guy would have me on the bed, my jeans down around my ankles and my panties pulled aside. Which is not to say I don’t want to do that with Matt, but his unhurried manner is a welcome surprise.
Him kissing my breasts isn’t a step toward a good fuck. It’s just pleasurable and wonderful in its own right. Just like our first kiss. Just like sitting on his bed and talking. He savors each moment.
And I can tell by the press of his erection against my stomach that he’s enjoying the hell out of this. I rock against him, relishing the pressure of his dick, even through the layers of denim and cotton.
He pulls back, and the cool air against my wet skin is its own kind of erotic sensation.
Reaching over his shoulder, he grabs my insulin case.
“What’s going on?” I ask curiously.
“I would feel like a piece of shit if you passed out in the middle of us having sex. That would definitely be a black mark in the risk column. So how about we test your blood sugar?”
That’s simultaneously one of the sweetest but also one of the least sexy things that have been said during foreplay. I curl my fingers into my hands so I don’t have to take the test. “And if it’s too low?”
“Then we get you something to eat if you need it and we sleep.”
“And we forget this ever happened?” I’m starting to get angry.
He cocks his head. I don’t know if he hears the slight bitterness in my tone. “I hope not.” He strokes a hand from my shoulder down over my breast to stop just at the edge of my waistband. My whole body tightens and leans into the caress. “I want one night with you. One full night. If that’s all you’ll give me.”
The unspoken request for more hangs between us. I don’t know what I can give him, so I let him take the BG measurement.
“How often do you have to do this?” he asks as I prick my finger and press it against the test strip. I still sit in his lap, straddling him. My hand brushes against his T-shirt-covered chest as I work. The muscles jump and bunch in a gratifying way at my accidental touch. There’s something intoxicating about how he responds to me. How easily turned on he is by everything about me.
“Ten to twelve times.”
“A week?”
I give him a withering look. “A day.”
He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “Christ.”
“Yeah, so don’t tell me about things that dominate your life. I know all about it.”
“I suppose you do.”
We wait until the measurement flashes on the screen. It says 84.
“Is that good?” he asks.
“Yes. It should be between 70 and 99 unless I’ve eaten and then under 140.”
I reach past him and place the kit back on the desk. “Anything else you want to test?”