Home > Until I Break(33)

Until I Break(33)
Author: M. Leighton

He hooks one finger inside the material where it runs between my legs and he brushes it back and forth over my nearly-smooth flesh. “Hmmm,” he groans. “These are already damp. That’s why you won’t be wearing panties while you’re here.” He glances up at me as he continues dragging his finger seductively over me, his knuckle grazing my clitoris. “I want all this on me, not wasted on satin and lace.”

I can’t move. I can’t speak.

Alec drags my panties down my legs, leaving me standing completely naked before him. I’m not thinking of my modesty, however, I’m thinking of his touch. I know it’s coming. Part of me is begging for it. Part of me is dreading it.

He pauses, his face only inches from my moist, hot center, and he watches me. Closely. As though he’s reading my mind.

I feel the shift and I know he saw into me. He saw my hesitation. And he’s adjusting his plan.

Rising, Alec directs his attention to his shirt. His hand moves to the collar, drawing my attention as well. I watch his fingers move deftly over each button, unfastening them as he makes his way to his waist. My pulse is throbbing erratically in my neck and I’m rooted to the spot.

When he slowly parts the two halves of his shirt, I can’t look away. I’m mesmerized by the flexing of rock hard muscle under smooth bronze skin. His chest is broad and sculpted, his abs are rippling and defined, and his waist is trim and narrow. He is a study in perfection.

“Do you like what you see?” he asks quietly, bringing my eyes up to his face. “Because I can keep going.” His hands go to his belt buckle and stop, awaiting my instruction. He’s leaving it up to me—how far we go right now—and as curious as I am about what’s inside those pants, and as hopeful as I am that he can be the one to do what no other has been able to thus far, fear that it will all fall apart wins the day.

“What else did you have in mind?” I ask shyly, hoping I don’t sound like a high school virgin.

Alec says nothing, moves nothing, for several long tense moments. I want to know what he’s thinking, but I’m afraid to ask.

But then, much to my relief, he abandons his buckle and steps closer to me instead. He sweeps me into his arms and carries me to the tub. Dropping to one knee, he sets me in the warm, scented water. “I want you to concentrate. Hard. Focus all your attention on not enjoying my hands on your body, okay?”

I’m surprised and confused, but thrilled that his task will be easy for me. I nod in agreement.

Alec takes a brand new bar of soap in his hands and lathers them. Starting at my throat, he massages the thick, creamy froth into my skin in lazy circles. He works his way down my chest to my br**sts. Then I understand why the tub is only half full. It leaves my upper body out of the water. Open to his eyes. And his touch.

I tremble as his gaze follows his hands. “These ni**les are mouthwatering,” he groans as his slippery fingers move over them. “I can only imagine how they would look all red and tender from being covered in hot wax.” As if to punctuate his thought, he pinches them, unleashing a gush of heat that floods my core. I clamp my lips against the gasp that traps air in my lungs. Remembering his words, I think about how I shouldn’t be enjoying what he’s doing. And I’m not. Not really.

Or am I?

No, I’m still too nervous, still too sure of how this will end to truly enjoy it, right? I know he can’t give me an orgasm. No one can. Right?

Or is this why I’m here? Because he’s the one man who can?

Pausing in his torture, Alec re-lathers his hands and turns his attention to my arms. He works the scented soap into the skin from my armpit to my fingers, even soaping in between them. The way he moves in and out of the webs of my fingers makes me struggle not to enjoy his ministrations.

Lathering up again, Alec leans toward me, circling my waist with his hands, moving them up and down my sides, his fingertips meeting at the center of my spine. Each long stroke brings his face closer, my back arching further and further. His eyes are trained steadily on mine, neither of us speaking as he strokes me, up and down, up and down.

On his last downward stroke, Alec lets his hands trail down to my hips. His fingers dig into my flesh, pulling me up off the bottom of the tub as he slips under me to massage each butt cheek. His fingertips fan inward, moving along the crease between them. They glide teasingly inward then playfully away.

When Alec stops to soap his hands again, I’m breathless and I don’t really know why. Maybe it’s because of the way he’s watching me. Maybe it’s because I know where he’s going next. Either way, anticipation is curled in my stomach like a snake ready to strike.

Alec’s foamy hands disappear under the bubbles. My body is vibrating with tension as I await his touch. But it never comes. He just watches me, his hands floating somewhere beneath the bubbles.

I suck in a breath when I feel his palms settle on my lower abdomen. My muscles twitch reflexively.

Alec splays his fingers out wide, covering me from hip to hip, and moves them slowly downward. I’m completely focused on where they’re headed and, against everything he told me to do, I’m anxious for it. I want it. But then, at the last minute, he parts his hands and drags them down the outside of my thighs.

My frustration mounts until Alec stops just above my knees and pulls his hands inward, toward the inside of my legs, and begins to climb back to my center, his thumbs pressing in as he ascends.

Mere inches from my core, Alec stops, his expression knowing, as if he can see my fingers curling against the warm ceramic of the tub. And then he moves again, all the way up to my heated center.

His thumbs part my swollen lips, allowing warm water to rush over my sensitive flesh. I clench my teeth, trying to hold still and keep quiet. But when his thumb grazes my clitoris, a single pant of air escapes before I hold my breath in, repeating the mantra over and over again.

I won’t enjoy this. I won’t enjoy this.

Up and down, Alec’s thumb moves gently over me. My instinct is to writhe against him, to grind against his hand, but I remain perfectly still, not stirring or speaking or uttering a single sound.

One hand leaves my leg, turning over in the water to cup me. “I’ll be tasting this soon,” he whispers, teasing my entrance with one fingertip. “Bend your knees,” he commands.

I do as he asks, placing my feet flat against the bottom of the tub, opening myself to him. He slides one long finger deep inside me. “God, you’re tight,” he groans. His heavy-lidded green eyes are turned nearly black by his dilated pupils. “You’ll grip my c**k like a glove.”

   
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