He takes my chin in his left hand and makes me look at him. “Open your eyes,” he says.
I shake my head.
He withdraws from me. “Don’t!” I cry. I need him. I don’t know what to do with this need. “I’m scared,” I say quietly. I’m not scared of Pete. I’m scared of myself. Because I’d do just about anything he asked me to do right now.
His thumb brushes the front of my panties, and my mouth falls open at the sensation. No one has ever touched me like this before. Never with such soft, sinful, sweet hands. His thumb presses my panties into my crease, and he rubs against my clit, the abrasion of the fabric not nearly enough. He kisses me, and I breathe against his lips.
“Can I put my hand inside your panties?” he asks. He nips my ear when he does it, and I cry out. I nod into his neck, moving as close to him as I can get. His hand slides between my panties and my skin, and I press my bottom closer to him, giving him more access. “So wet,” he says. I squeeze my eyes shut. His fingers trail through my wetness, and then they find that little button of pleasure that has been thumping since his lips first touched mine.
He presses the pad of his middle finger against me, his touch gentle but insistent. “Pete,” I cry.
“Reagan,” he breathes. He kisses me again, but it’s broken by my breaths, which stutter past my lips. I can’t think. I can’t talk. I can only take the pleasure he gives me. “Come for me, Reagan,” he breathes against my lips.
Then I break. I nip his lower lip when I come, and he growls, thrusting his tongue into my mouth as he absorbs my every shudder, my every gasp, my every quiver. I rock against his hand, pressing against him as he plies me. I tuck my head into his shoulder, my arms around his neck, as he wrings every last bit of pleasure from my body until I’m spent and heavy against him, still quivering, still shaking, still…in love with him. I mewl into his neck, and he hums. When my body stills, he pulls his hand from my panties, lifts me so that my legs wrap around his hips, and he stands up. Then he sits down on a bale of hay with me straddling his lap.
He holds me tightly against him as I fall back to earth. When I can lift my head, I sit up and look into his blue eyes. “What the f**k was that?” I breathe. I laugh. I can’t help it, but I never even thought I would feel this free. Ever.
He pulls me to him and wraps me in a tight hug. “That, my dearest Reagan, was one hell of a first kiss.”
“Epic,” I breathe. Then I giggle. I laugh. Just because I can.
Pete
Jesus f**king Christ that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, done, or even imagined. I’ve been with a lot of girls, but I have never had one come undone like Reagan just did. I pull her against me, her skin against my shirt. She’s warm and soft and feels so damn good on top of me that I’m in danger of coming in my pants. I hold her against me, but then she sits up, looks into my face, and says, “What the f**k was that?”
That was an orgasm. A really, really good one if her cries were any indication. If the way she trembled in my arms was any indication. If the way she said my name over and over and over was any indication. “That, my dearest Reagan,” I say, trying to remain flippant, but I’m moved. Moved unlike I have ever been moved before. “Was one hell of a first kiss.”
Her body shakes and I worry that she’s crying, but she’s not. She’s laughing. Giggling, actually. “Epic!” she screams. Then she laughs again. She throws her head back, her hair falling down to reach my hands, which are just over her ass. I look down at her boob, which is still uncovered, her nipple pert and perky and…bare. God, her tits are beautiful. I look into her face because I can’t look at her boob anymore. I want her. I want her so badly. But she’s not ready for what I want. I’m sure of it. She’s just not. I slide my finger into the edge of her bra and lift it to cover her. She looks down and flushes. She just came on my f**king hand and now she wants to be shy about it?
“You okay?” I ask, brushing her sweaty hair back from her forehead.
She nods, biting her lower lip between her teeth. I can’t help it. I’m a guy. And I’m so hard I could pound nails with my dick. “I’m so much better than okay,” she says quietly. A tear forms in the corner of her eye, but she blinks it back. “Pete,” she says. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” I murmur. I pull her down to lie on my chest and stroke the length of her hair.
“Will you go on a date with me when we get back to the city?” she asks.
Laughter bubbles within me. She just came sitting on my leg with my hand in her panties and she wants to know if I’ll take her on a date. “Of course,” I say. “I wouldn’t like anything more.” Well, I’d kind of like to come, too, but I can wait. I can wait for when she’s ready.
“Was that an orgasm?” she whispers. I imagine she’s smiling against my chest because I can hear it in her voice. She turns her head and hides her face in my shirt.
“A big one,” I say with a laugh. “Fucking huge.” I am the man. Yes, I am.
She laughs, her shoulders rocking with it, her bottom wiggling against my dick. Shit. I wish she’d stop that. “Thought so,” she whispers.
I pat her butt. “We need to get you dressed,” I say, encouraging her with a squeeze to climb off me.
She stands up, and I help her fix her clothes. Her horse makes a noise, and she looks over the stall door. She heaves a sigh. “It’ll be a few hours yet,” she says. She makes a twittery, nervous sound that might be laughter and avoids my gaze. Is she suddenly feeling self-conscious?