Anticipation nips at my skin, scaling up and down the sensitive nerves beneath. And yet, I don’t make a move. I’ve been making most of the moves.
It’s his turn.
“Like if I don’t touch you right now, I’ll die. Like if anyone else touched you, I’d kill them.”
“So you said . . .” But my voice is no more than a wispy breeze.
My whole body tightens as he lifts his hands, his fingertips drawing near my skin. They land softly in the middle of my sternum, in between the pushed-up cleavage of my purple clamshell bra.
My body’s reaction is quick, nipples tightening to hard points. Then, a sharp inhale of breath as his fingertip glides along the sparkly skin.
His head is tilted as he traces the upper swells of my breasts. His expression is less human than before. Maybe it’s the drugs making his pupils so big. Maybe it’s the predatory, nonhuman part of his brain taking over.
Or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s not all human at all.
But whatever it is, I’m both his subject and his rapt audience.
“What are you doing . . .” My voice trails off when his finger hooks into the intersection of my cleavage.
As if he’s experimenting, he pulls me forward from the juncture, simultaneously pulling the top away from my breasts and yanking me toward him.
His expression doesn’t waver. Still, straight mouth. Widened, dark eyes. Curiously tilted head.
The feeling of being on display is not new to me; it’s a feeling I’ve hated throughout my life. But I’ve discovered I like being on display for him.
His fingers drop, my skin cooling in their wake.
With aching slowness, he circles me, swiping my hair from my back over my shoulder, the touch tickling and soft.
Then, there’s another yank from behind. I yelp at the motion.
He’s undone the strings to my clamshell bra.
The cups fall from the slope of my sensitized breasts and clatter to the ground.
The balmy apartment air wafts past my naked nipples. My body feels heavy. Achy.
This time, he can’t ignore my physical presence.
His breath caresses my neck, a slight tingle telling me he’s behind me. At my back, just barely touching.
Then he circles back to my front.
Again, he glides his hands down from my clavicle, each hand on either side, sliding his fingers downward, over the slope of my breast all the way to my nipple.
I whimper when his fingertips hit the bump of my areolas and then spring off them.
“No . . .” I murmur because his touch disappears.
I breathe a sigh of relief when his fingers reenact the same motion, but this time moving upward from the bottom swell, touching the underside of the nipple instead. He flicks each nipple back and forth, as if testing something, watching the dark pink flesh bounce with his manipulation.
My tight skirt already has my legs pressed together, but I clamp my thighs even harder. The anticipation is making me wet with need.
I’m like an insect under a microscope, and he’s zooming in.
He’s got me squirming.
And then he drops to his knees.
At first, he uses his hands, sending them up my belly. Then he leans his face in.
My breath catches.
He rubs his cheek along the taut skin of my abdomen. Then he grabs my breasts, pulling me down just enough so that they’re at his eye level.
He cups both with his hands, and finally, the moment I’ve been waiting for. His mouth closes over one aching nipple, his tongue flicking out to the very, very tip.
“Oh fuck, Mack,” I exhale.
The motion he makes with his tongue is dizzying. Bursts of acute pleasure bordering on pain shoot down my belly to my clit.
He draws the nipple in his mouth, sucks hard, and then pops off.
Finally, he looks up at me, like he’s flicked back into another gear, his mouth swollen, the flush running down his shoulders. Then, while maintaining eye contact, he rubs his face against my breasts.
The sensation wipes across me like a damp cloth wiping chalk from a slate, soothing the aching and throbbing with his mouth but at the same time, doubling the near-painful ache in my pussy.
He rubs his face and then lifts his chin and rubs that along the surface of my skin as well.
