Jack Wilder - The Missionary

Keep going , she told herself. She fought down the withdrawal-induced nausea and tried to focus on the memory of his kiss, his hands on her butt, his fingers caressing her skin. Chills overtook her, and she couldn’t quite stop the chatter of her teeth.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Stone asked, his voice suspicious.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m just…excited. And a little nervous. It’s been awhile.”

“It’s been awhile for me too,” Stone said. “Look, we don’t have to rush this. We’ll go home and take this at our own pace. It doesn’t have to be now.”

Wren closed the gap between them so the rigid tips of her breasts just barely brushed his hard, hot chest. “I want to. I want it to be now. Besides, you’re the one who said we may not make it out of this alive. Now may be all we have.”

His hands circled her arms, slid up and down twice, and then moved to her shoulder blades, down her back and to her waist. “I know what I said. But I don’t want you think I’m saying we won’t make it. We will. I promise you we will.”

Wren lifted up on her toes, clutched the back of Stone’s neck, and kissed him. In a book, the kiss would erase all of her aches and doubts and fears and sickness. In a book, she would be able to forget it all and lose herself in the taste of his mouth. He really did taste wonderful. But this was reality, and she couldn’t simply forget the blazing heat of chemical addiction. It was alive within her, boiling her blood in her veins, sending armies of crawling things itching under her skin.

She kissed him anyway, until she had to stop for breath.

His hands scoured her skin, scraped and stuttered over her hips, cupped her ass and squeezed it, tickled her thighs. His lips moved from her mouth to her neck, to the hollow of her throat and the delicate curve where neck became shoulder. Then, to her breastbone, and she shivered, hot all over and shaking, knees quaking. She couldn’t breathe, and now his lips were touching the upward slope of her breasts and the nausea stomping in her belly was nearly forgotten in the sweet ache of arousal.

She felt his mouth close over her right nipple, and the tug of his lips was matched by a tug between her thighs. She held on to him, focused every ounce of her attention on feeling him, only him. One of his hands slid over her skin just above her aching core, and the other remained behind to cup the weight of her buttock. She wanted to gasp his name breathlessly, but she couldn’t summon even that. She could only hold on to his neck and shoulders and give over to tactile sensation.

His fingers delved between her thighs, grazing the crease of her pussy with his long middle finger. She let her thighs move apart, clinging to his neck, pressing her lips to the warmth of his throat, kissing and nibbling and then giving way to gasps as his fingers slid inside her and began to explore.

He seemed to know exactly where to touch her, how to stroke her. Within seconds, she was unable to stand up on her own at all, and Stone was lowering her to the bed and kneeling over her, never slowing the slow sweep of his fingers, or the suckling of his lips on her nipple.

Wren bit her lip and tried to ignore the roiling of her stomach, tried gamely to focus on the raw fury of her building orgasm.

She moaned, scratching at his shoulders as he moved his mouth to her other breast. He shifted position, and she felt the hard bulge of arousal against her thigh. She lifted her hips into his touch, moving with his rhythm, seeking release from the ache. His fingers inside her accelerated and his teeth grazed the sensitive, erect nub of her nipple. She couldn’t move or think or feel anything but the blasting pulse of heat low in her belly and the tugging in her breasts as he released her hand to gently twist and flick her nipple.

And then, just as the heat and pressure became too much to bear, Stone’s fingers slid upward inside her and his thumb rolled over her throbbing clitoris and Wren came apart, crying out and clawing his back with her fingernails, pressing her lips to his throat and whimpering as the orgasm blasted through her.

She clung to Stone, shaking and quaking, heat raging in her veins, every ounce of strength within her leached away, now.

Wren felt herself going under, slipping beneath the surface of consciousness. She fought it, forcing her eyes open, rolling in place to face Stone, who was on his side now. His eyes were hooded, heavy-lidded, burning. Wren extended her hand, fighting the weight of her own limb, to touch his chest, tracing the outline of his pectoral muscle, the tan, hard flesh hot beneath her fingertips. His gaze raked over her, soaking up her body, then returned to meet her eyes.

“You’re so beautiful, especially when you come for me like that.” Stone’s voice was pitched low, barely a murmur, rumbling like distant thunder.

“Stone.” She carved a path down his chest, following the grooves of his cut abdominal muscles. “That was…incredible.”

“It was a start.”

“You finished me off, Stone. I can barely function.” Wren struggled with her drowsing eyelids, forcing them open. “But you…I’m not done with you.”

She touched the tightly rolled and tucked cotton of his towel, which he’d somehow managed to keep around his waist the entire time. The front of the white cotton was tented by his straining erection.

He tensed as she hooked her index finger under the towel at his waist, loosening it. “It doesn’t have to be equal, Wren. I’ll be fine.”

She shook her head floppily. “It’s not about equality. I want…this. You. More.”

His lips quirked in an amused smile. “You’re falling asleep as you talk, babe.”

“Then I should save my energy, shouldn’t I?” She smiled at him, but it was a soft, faint curve of her lips.

She tugged at the towel gently until the ends came apart and he was bare to the air and to her gaze. Wren couldn’t stop a surprised gasp at the size of him, but quickly recovered, closing her fingers around his silky hardness. He gasped, then, as she slid her fist down his length.

Wren marveled as she touched him. Stone had always seemed larger than life to her, massively muscled yet as lithe and graceful in every movement as a lion, rugged and rough-hewn. And now, naked, she could barely fathom the raw power of the man. There was no spare fat on him, no imperfections in his muscular build.

She slid her hand around his cock, exploring him, and each stroke of his taut skin took an absurdly long time to complete. He was watching her with hungry eyes, still, letting her touch without moving, without trying to get more from her.

Sliding closer to him, she tucked her head against his chest and took her time stroking him. She used her fingertips to trace his length, then her fist to squeeze his thickness, now setting a rhythm of achingly slow strokes, thumbing his tip at the apex of the stroke and twisting her hand when she reached his base. He pressed his lips against her hair and kissed, tightened his grip on her shoulders, but otherwise remained completely still. The only sign of arousal was his increasingly ragged breathing. Then, as she began to increase the pace of her hand on him, he bucked his hips, meeting her hand.

A groan escaped him, and then another. “Wren, I’m not going to last much longer.”

“Good,” she murmured. “Let go.”

“All over you?”

She only quickened her pace, until he was gasping and writhing. Wren watched him, gauging. She watched the tip of him leak as he pushed into her fist. Wren was aroused again, turned on just watching him grow frantic, savoring the growl that escaped him when she slowed down, and then let go of him.

Summoning all of her energy, forcing away everything but the need for this, for him, she slid her leg over his hips, clinging to his neck as she positioned him at her entrance.