Sweet Filthy Boy - Lauren Christina (читать книги без TXT) 📗

The bed is the biggest thing in the apartment and even in the dark, he finds it easily.

He backs to the mattress, kissing me the entire way, and sits down, moving to pull me between his open legs. His hands smooth along the skin at the back of my thighs, up and down until his fingers reach the hem of my underwear. The streetlight down the driveway cuts a dim cone of light across one wall, and I can just make out his face, his shoulders. His pants are open and his cock is already hard, the tip peeking above the waistband of his boxers, the length pressed flat to his stomach.

He pulls me forward and I feel the heat of his mouth on my neck. “Twelve hours isn’t nearly enough,” he says, pushing the words into my skin. He licks a line between my breasts, sucks on my nipple through the lace of my bra. I struggle to free my hands and he takes pity on me, pushing my clothes the rest of the way down my body and letting them pool at my feet.

Finally able to move, I push my fingers into his hair and it’s just like I remembered—his sounds, his smell, the way my skin flashes hot when he sucks the skin below my collarbone—how did I think I could live a day without this?

“Want this off,” Ansel says, reaching behind me to unfasten the tiny clasps of my bra. His hands pass the straps, moving the opposite direction as they fall down my arms and his hands slide up over my shoulders and then down my chest, cupping my breasts. Leaning forward, he palms one, kissing the other.

He makes a small sound of approval and moves one hand down over my ass. “And these. Take them off.” His mouth closes over one nipple, tongue flicking against the peak.

This is the point where I would have needed to disappear inside of someone else, to quiet my mind with costumes and make-believe. But right now, the only person I want to be is me.

“You, too,” I say. “Pants off.” I watch with unrestrained hunger as he stands, and pushes the rest of his clothes to the ground.

Ansel doesn’t prompt me further, just inches his long frame to the head of the bed, lies down, and waits until I slip my fingers beneath the lace and push my panties down my hips. Wordlessly he reaches for himself, gripping his cock at the base and stroking up slowly.

I climb up the bed, hovering over him with my thighs bracketed on either side of his hips. He releases his cock, and it juts up, hard against his stomach, his eyes wide and focused on the diminishing space between our bodies. With impatient hands, he grips my hips, pulling me higher, positioning me over him.

His jaw is flexed, neck arched back into the pillow, and he growls out a Touch me.

I run my hands up his chest and lower, sliding my fingers down his length and cupping his balls, his hip. There’s something so dirty about being above him this way. I’m bare for him to see, exposed. I can’t hide my face in his neck and disappear beneath the weight and comfort of his body.

This is new for us, seeing him here in my apartment and my bed, his messy head of hair in the center of my pillow. His eyes are glassy, his punch-colored lips red from my kisses, and it makes me possessive in a way I’ve never known before.

“You’re so warm,” he says, reaching between my legs. “So ready.” His fingers slip easily along my skin, exploring, before he grips his cock and moves it against me. I can’t look away from his face, from his focused concentration where our bodies are touching, and it’s like the air has been sucked from the room, incinerated with a single gasp.

He pushes forward with every small flex of his hips upward, closer, closer, until he’s there, finally, pressing barely inside. I sink down on him slowly, breathing so hard and fast and unable to close my eyes because his expression is unreal: eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, cheeks splotchy and red as he gasps beneath me, overcome.

It’s too full, too much, and I give my body a second to get used to the feel of him so deep. But it isn’t what I want; I don’t want to be still; I want to feel the thick slide of him and his rough hands growing hungrier. I want to feel him all night.

I start with just gentle rocking over him, lost in his reactions as much as he seems lost in the feel of me. His hands grip my hips, anchoring but letting me drive, and finally he opens his eyes, looks up at my face, and smiles, showing the pure essence of Ansel: bright eyes, playful dimple, and his sweet, filthy mouth.

“Give me a little show, Cerise. Break me.”

With a grin, I lift my body and slide down, and then a little faster, and a little faster, mesmerized by the tiny wrinkle between his brows as he watches my face, concentrating. He angles his hips, satisfied when I gasp, and reaches between us to touch me, pet me, stroke me, and quietly whispers to ride him faster and rougher.

“Let me hear the fucking,” he growls, pushing up into me. “Let my little wild one out.”

He watches with rapt attention as I start to come—and he whispers, “Oh, Mia, that’s it”—my hands planted on his chest, my eyes focused on his parted lips and I beg him, “Please, oh, please.” I feel my head begin to fall back as the pleasure climbs. “I’m there, I’m there.”

He gives me a tiny nod, a tiny smile, and presses his fingers harder against me, watching as I shatter into pure sensation, bucking on him and finally closing my eyes against the intensity of it, the silvery, blinding release as I collapse against his chest.

The world tips, the soft sheets are at my back, and I feel his hand between my legs, touching me before guiding himself back inside and then he’s moving on top of me—long, sure strokes—his chest pressed to mine. He’s warm and his mouth moves over my neck, to my mouth, where he sucks and tastes, growling low curses and words like wet and come and sweet wet skin and deeper, so deep, so deep.

I slide my hands down his back, gripping his ass and relishing the bunching of the muscle in my hands as he moves, curling into me and moving hard when I spread my legs wider, dig my nails into his skin, and buck up beneath him, feeling another orgasm take shape at the edges.

I gasp his name and he speeds up as he glances at my face, grunting out a quiet Yes. Fuck.

His brow is sweaty, his eyes on my breasts, my lips, and then he pushes his body away just enough that he can watch where he’s moving in me. He’s wet from me, so hard everywhere—muscles tense and ready to snap, ready to explode. The position has always been our best, the friction, the fit of him against me, and he circles his hips, looking between our bodies and then at my face, back down and up again, finally exhaling a tight burst of air as I whisper, “Oh.”

He groans in relief when I push my head into the pillow, wild beneath him and coming with a sharp cry.

“I’m close,” he growls, arching his head back and closing his eyes. “Oh, God, Mia.”

He collapses on me, hips pivoting so wild and deep in me that we’re nearly pressed to the headboard, his hands curling into fists around the pillow beside my head. He cries out as he comes; the sound echoes off the ceiling and the quiet, still-blank walls.

My senses come back to me one at a time: first the feel of him still inside me, the weight of his body, warm and slick with sweat. My own body is tender, leaden with pleasure.

I hear the sound of his labored breath in my ear, the quiet I love you.

After that I can taste and smell the salt of his skin when I kiss his neck, and I begin to make out the shape of his shoulders above me, the slow rocking as he begins moving again, just feeling.

He brushes the hair from my face and looks down at me. “I want to pretend,” he says.

“Pretend?”

“Yes.”

He pushes up to hover above me and I run my hands down his sweaty chest, touching where he disappears inside. A tremor moves up my spine and I feel the heat of his gaze, the pressing weight of his attention as he scans my face, dissects my expression.