Trashed (Stripped 2)

“I like it,” I say.

He circles my clit again, not touching me directly, but the indirect pressure is somehow worse, or better, I’m not sure which. All I know is the circling and swiping of his finger has me wiggling, has my hips wanting to move, has the heat and pressure coiling higher and hotter and moving closer to the surface.

And then he flicks my clit with a fingertip, and I have to muffle another groan.

“Don’t hold back,” he growls. “Let me hear you.”

He wants me to be noisy? Why?

Thoughts are erased as he moves his finger in circles again, and my hips are moving now, out of my control. I can’t stop them. I should. I know I should. I’m being crazy and embarrassing. But I can’t control myself anymore.

He controls me with his touch.

I’m too late to bite back a loud moan when he flicks my clit again at the same time that he leans forward and takes my hardened nipple in his mouth. The moan is loud and embarrassingly breathy, but this only seems to make him touch me faster, mouth my breast all the more hungrily.

And then he nudges me backward, and I fall to the mattress. My legs hang over the edge of the bed, and I know I’m bared to him, my thighs spread open for him. I feel his gaze, and I feel his finger moving inside me, descending from my clit to my channel, slipping in and then moving out. My eyes close involuntarily, and I feel so full from just his finger, and then somehow I’m even more full, spread open inside until it almost aches, and I force my eyes open and sit up on my elbows to see that he has two fingers inside me. He’s not moving his fingers all the way in, and I wonder if he can feel the barrier of my innocence, if he can feel my virginity with his fingers. If he does, he doesn’t say anything. He just curls his fingers into me and moves them. It feels so good I have to fall back to the bed, have to close my eyes and let my hips lift in the rhythm of his moving fingers.

My eyes are closed, so I don’t see him do it. I’m aware of nothing but his fingers and the ever-mounting sun-hot balloon of pressure aching inside me, and so I’m shocked into a breathless scream when I feel something wet and firm and slippery and hot at my opening. I feel my clit being sucked on, and then his tongue is moving against my clit and I’m moaning, moaning, and I can’t even remember my name or his, but I know nothing, nothing has ever felt this way.

I open my eyes and peer down the length of my body to see his face buried between my thighs, moving from side to side as he flicks his tongue against my clit faster and faster. Shit, shit, shit…that’s a vision I’ll never forget, Adam’s broad shoulders and the massive curve of his back and his short spiky black hair and the feel of his tongue in my most sensitive, most private, most delicate place, and the heat is exploding and I’m groaning past clenching molars. I’m grinding against his mouth, and I’m gasping with wantonly erotic need, and his tongue is flicking my clit with hungry vigorous speed, and I’m lifted off the bed, his hands cupping my ass and physically lifting me as if I weighed nothing, and he’s pulling me against him and Jesus, holy shit, he tosses one of my legs and then the other over his shoulder, and his face moves crazily and his tongue circles madly, and my hips gyrate, driven by an engine of relentless heat.

This is surreal.

This isn’t happening.

It can’t be.

But it is.

And then I’m making a wild sound, a teeth-clenched scream and the world is imploding and my body is wracked and my core is shaken and exploding and I’m writhing, and Adam is growling into my pussy and his fingers are driving in and out and rubbing somewhere high inside me that has the explosion going hotter and the heat spearing even more sharply.

My thighs clench around his neck, and my heels scrabble at his back, and my hips move on their own. I’m screaming. I don’t recognize the sounds coming from me, but then I don’t recognize anything in this dizzied chaotic world where all is spears of ecstasy rifling through my veins and muscles and pores, where all is hotter than the sun and Adam’s hands clutching my ass and his mouth sucking my clit and his fingers sliding in and out of my pussy. He’s playing my body like an instrument, like he’s a virtuoso and I’m his art, taking each sound and shiver and making it into music.

I can’t breathe, can’t do anything but shake and whimper and moan, and eventually his mouth pulls away from my pussy and I’m being bodily moved up to the top of the bed, and he’s beside me, looking down at me.

“Ho—holy shit,” I gasp. “Holy shit.”

I look up at him. His mouth is shiny with wetness, and I’m mortified to realize that it’s my essence on his face, smeared on his skin. As I watch, he wipes his palm across his lips, and then his forearm, and I blush. He smirks knowingly, his palm skating across my stomach, up to my breasts. He brushes his index finger over my nipple, and I flinch, so sensitive even that slight, gentle touch is almost too much.

I rake my gaze over his broad shoulders, his thick pectoral muscles, his tree trunk-huge arms, the heavy sculpted slab of his abdomen, and then I see the thick ridge of his cock bulging the stretchy gray fabric of his CK boxer-briefs.

He’s watching me watch him.

I turn toward him, reach a hand out, rest it on his side. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. I run my fingertips over his firm skin until I come to the elastic band of his underwear. Can I do this?

My emotions are a jumble. I’m not a virgin because I don’t feel desire, or because I’m a prude, or because of religion; I’m a virgin because I experienced things that caused deep wounds inside me, left thick scars and impenetrable walls between me and the world. I’m a virgin because I don’t trust anyone to not hurt me. But I feel desire. I feel need. I ache. I’m lonely. I’m a twenty-two-year-old girl with the same hormones and drives and appetites as any other, but so far my fear and distrust has won out.

Now, somehow, for reasons I don’t understand, desire is winning. Attraction and desperation is winning. Adam is all man. He’s huge and strong and sexy and beautiful, but he’s also kind and funny and reassuring and down-to-earth despite his fame and wealth.

And I want him.

I want to touch him. I want to see what he looks like totally naked. I want to see his cock. I want to touch him. I want him to kiss me and get lost, and I want to get lost in him. I want to drown myself in this with him, future and consequences be damned.

I want to conquer my fear.

So I caress my palm over Adam’s chest and stomach and shoulder, and then push him down to his back, and I sit up. Hooking my fingers in the elastic, I let out a long breath, lick my lips, and pull his underwear down. I have to stretch the waistband away from his body to free his erection, and then he’s lifting his hips for me and drawing his foot out of one side, and then kicking it away.