Page 32 of Never Enough

"These tits," I say, staring down at them. Heavy and pale and perfect. I slide my hand up the valley between her breasts, feeling her heartbeat hammering against my palm. "I could put my dick right here and fuck these beauties."

She whimpers. The sound vibrates through her whole body and into mine. "Okay. We can do that. But if you don't touch me soon, I am going to combust."

"Now who's the impatient one?"

But I drop my mouth to her breast. I suck her nipple into my mouth and draw hard, pulling a gasp from her that goes straight to the base of my spine. My dick pulses in my underwear. She's perfect on my tongue—warm, soft, her skin tasting faintly of the vanilla that always clings to her from the bakery. I swirl my tongue around the tight peak, then scrape my teeth over it just to hear her cry out.

Her hands rake up my naked back, nails digging in, and the sting of it lights something primal in me. I'm so ready to be buried inside her, to feel her clench around me, but I force myself to slow down. I want to take her apart first. I want to watch her fall to pieces under my hands before I give us both what we need.

While I lavish her breasts with attention, I slip my hand into her panties.

My fingers slide into slick, swollen heat.

She's soaked. Absolutely drenched. For me.

"Henry!" My name is a cry. Then she moans when I circle her clit with the pad of my middle finger.

I match the rhythm to my mouth. Slow circles on her clit while I suck her nipple, then faster strokes as I flick my tongue, building her up in tandem. She bucks against my hand, chasing the pressure, her nails doing their best to cause damage, but they’re simply too short.

"That's it, Firefly," I murmur against her breast. I press a kiss between them, then look up at her face. Her eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open, brow furrowed in concentration. She's close. I can feel it in the way her thighs tremble around my hand, in the way her walls flutter against my fingers when I dip lower and press inside.

"I'm going to watch you fall apart on my hand," I tell her. I curl my fingers and press my thumb against her clit. "Then you're going to sit on my face so I can make you come with my tongue."

Her orgasm pummels through her.

Her back arches like a drawn bow, and she cries out my name—Henry—in a voice that's shattered and beautiful. Her body clamps down on my fingers and pulses, and I work her through every tremor, every aftershock, stroking her gently as she rides it out.

I watch her face the entire time.

I watch her because I've waited years for this. Because I want to memorize every detail—the flush spreading down her chest, the way her lips form my name, the way her hands finally go slack against my back and her body melts into the mattress like she's been poured there.

She opens her eyes and stares up at me.

And the expression on her face is a bit dazed.

chapter

thirteen

Gracie

I'm boneless. Completely, utterly boneless—like someone reached inside me and removed every structural element keeping me upright. My skeleton has left the building. What remains is a puddle of warm, trembling, thoroughly wrecked woman spread across Henry Blankenship's bed, and I have zero complaints about it.

That was the most intense orgasm of my life. And I say that as a woman who owns a perfectly reliable vibrator and has spent more than a few lonely nights putting it to good use.

But Henry's hands—those rough, calloused, impossibly sure hands—just rendered every battery-operated device I own completely obsolete.

My breathing is still ragged, my thighs still trembling, and my brain is still rebooting like a computer that got hit by a power surge. But even through the haze, I want more. I want him. I want to make him feel what he just made me feel.

I reach down between us and slip my hand into his boxer briefs.

The hard, hot length of his erection brushes against my palm and… wow. He's thick. Thicker than I expected, and so hard he practically pulses against my skin. The heat of him is startling, like holding something sun-warmed and alive. I wrap my hand around him as far as it'll go and give him a stroke.

"Fuuuuuckkk," he growls, and the sound vibrates through his chest and into mine. Low and guttural, the kind of sound that belongs in the dark and has no business making my spent body clench with renewed want.

Then he rolls onto his back, effectively pulling my hand out of his underwear, and I make a noise of protest that I'm not proud of.

"I need my tongue on your pussy," he says. Like it's a fact. Like it's a biological imperative. He shifts himself on the bed, settling against the pillows, and pats his chest. "Right here."