Trashed, p.10
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       Trashed, p.10

         Part #2 of Stripped series by Jasinda Wilder
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It’s not normal to be terrified of letting men get close to me. It’s not normal to freeze up when male hands reach for me.

  For some reason, Adam scares me the least of anyone I’ve ever met, even as he simultaneously terrifies me more than I ever thought possible. I feel safe with him. I feel like I can trust him, like he’d stop in an instant if I said the word. Like he’d be furious for me if he knew the root cause of my fear. And I want him. I want him so bad. I want to touch his skin, his muscles. I want to see all of him. I want to pull his underwear off and see and feel that massive, iron-hard thing they so completely fail to disguise.

  I’m not some innocent, lily-white fainting daisy. I grew up hard, and fast. I’m not innocent or ignorant. I’ve had a few…experiences. I’ve just never been capable of letting anyone get close enough to me to give them my virginity. I’ve just never been able to withstand touch, however gentle.

  I’ve seen cocks before, and I know he’s packing something rarely and uniquely amazing. Just like the rest of him.

  I want him. I want him.

  But I’m scared of letting myself go there. I’m scared of what will happen. Not to my body, but my heart. And I’m scared I’ll freak out at the last second, and mess everything up.

  Oh god, he’s touching me everywhere. Hips, breasts, nipples, ribs, thighs. And he’s telling me he wants to touch me—and kiss me—everywhere, all over, and I know I want it and can’t keep a curse of embattled need and fear from escaping.

  “Jesus,” I hear myself say.

  “I keep telling you that’s not my name,” Adam jokes again, a grin on his lovely, talented mouth.

  “Adam…” I breathe.

  “Better,” he says, covering my shaking hands with his.

  I’m covering myself. No one has ever seen me like this, naked, bared, open, vulnerable. And the way he’s looking at me, like I’m something yummy he wants to eat, is both dizzyingly wonderful and scarily intoxicating.

  “Now look into my eyes and tell me you want me to stop. ”

  He knows that’s impossible. I’ve let this go too far, and there’s no turning back now. “I can’t,” I admit.

  “I know you can’t,” he says, an arrogant smirk ghosting across his lips. “You know you want this. You know you want to let me touch you. ”

  How the fuck can he read me so well? How does he know what I want so unerringly? It’s unnerving.

  I can’t look away from him. There’s not the slightest desire in me to look away from his pale, green eyes. His gaze heats me from within, makes something quiver inside me. More even than his arrogant words and confident touch, the knowing, patient, hungry look in his eyes has me acquiescing to my own desires.

  I want to let him see me, touch me, and so…I do. I force my hands away, and cling to his broad shoulders. I can feel his muscles shifting under his skin as he keeps his eyes on mine, that cocky grin curling on his lips, as he traces the seam of my pussy with one thick forefinger.

  I feel a sliver of heat knife through me, beginning deep within my core, deep down just below my belly. The heat is damp, thick, and pervading. And then his finger drags from the apex of my vagina back down, pauses, and slides back up. The upward journey parts my labia ever so slightly, and a moan escapes my lips. My eyes want to close, but I refuse to let them. I make myself watch. I force my eyes open and watch his finger skate up and down my opening slowly, slowly, again and again, slipping in a little further with every upward and downward motion. And then he’s in me; his finger is inside my pussy to the second knuckle. His palm faces up, his finger curling in. His eyes go to mine, watching my every reaction. My eyes are heavy, fluttering with the aching fullness of one of his fingers, my core hot and wet now, made all the more damp by his touch. Wetness moves through me, until I’m sure I must be dripping, and I’m embarrassed, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  Or maybe he does. He pulls his finger out of me, and I feel so empty, suddenly. And then, making sure I’m watching, he puts his index finger in his mouth—the finger that was just inside me. I gape at him in disbelief, but can’t summon any words. It was mortifying and erotic in equal measure, and I don’t know which reaction to show, so I don’t show either, I just stare at him. His finger, glistening with his saliva and my essence, slips back into me now, piercing me slowly, and I squirm at the invasion, breathe out a moan.

  I ache. There’s a pressure within me, building and building, mounting with every appreciative, desire-hot sweep of his eyes over my body, with every gentle, skillful touch of his hands and mouth on my skin. I ache, and I know somehow that only Adam could ever release the pressure, could ever provide the relief I need.

  He slides his finger upward and finds the nexus of the aching pressure: my clitoris. The heat and the wetness and the pressure and the need, it’s all centered there, and he knows it, and he finds it, and his finger presses the diamond-hard nub of nerves and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning too loud.

  “You like that, Des?” His voice is a low rumble, coming from deep in his chest.

  “Y-yeah. I do. ”

  “Then let me hear you say it. ”

  Page 28

  “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.

  Page 29

 

  I’m naked with Adam Trenton.

  He’s still, watching me, and only his eyes move, flicking from side to side, then down to my breasts and between my thighs, and back up.

  My gaze is locked on his cock. Holy hell is he big. Tall, thick, and straight, standing erect, pointing away from his body ever so slightly. My pulse is crashing thunder in my ears, my hands trembling ever so slightly. Or maybe a lot. Adam seems totally at ease, one hand tucked behind his head, the other resting with proprietary familiarity on my thigh.

  The fingertips of my right hand trail down the slight dusting of dark hair on his chest and stomach, but I chicken out and skirt his crotch, dragging my fingers down his thigh. His posture is loose and relaxed and confident but, jerking my gaze from his impressive erection to his eyes, I notice that his expression is as shuttered as mine is, as if he’s feeling a weltering wealth of emotion and has as many walls up as I do. Maybe I’m reading too much into his blank expression, but I don’t think I am. I summon my courage and draw on my desire, bring my hand back up his opposite thigh, to his stomach. He tenses, sucks in his stomach as my hand nears his erection. His eyes narrow, his nostrils flare. The hand tucked under his head clenches into a fist, and the hand on my thigh squeezes, and then relaxes.

  Hovering over him briefly, I finally let my palm descend, and the thick, veined, dark organ is in my hand. I close my fingers around him, and he inhales a long, deep breath. I’ve got him in my fist, now, and his flesh is hot and smooth. It’s exactly as hard in my hand as it looked, yet also softer, silkier. Like satin cushioned around a core of steel. I slide my fist down, and the bulbous head emerges from the top of my hand, straining. I touch my thumb to the very top, and find it springy, squishy. A bead of wetness oozes from the tiny hole at the tip, and my thumb smears over it. Adam’s jaw is clenched, his breathing coming in deep, even inhalations. I move my hand up, and then back down, and Adam’s hips lift slightly. He likes this. I mean, duh, I knew—intellectually—that he would like it, but knowing it mentally is not the same as seeing as his reactions, feeling his stomach tense and his thighs contract, and feeling his hips lift into my touch, seeing his eyes go hooded and hot.

  I twist my fist around his thickness as I bring my hand down, and then twist again as I bring it slowly back up. The clear fluid beading at his tip is all over my hand now, and smeared all over the thick, soft, broad bulb the head of his cock.

  “You’d better stop,” Adam says. “Or this is gonna end real fast. ”

  He was that close to coming? I didn’t realize it would be that easy. Part of me wants to keep going, wants to make him come. I want to watch that happen, and know that I did it. Maybe I’ll get that chance another time. For now, I let go, and then he’s lifting up, his torso leaving the bed, his mouth finding mine, his tongue thrusting into my mouth, and heat fills me. Energy sluices through me, desire floods me. My hands find his chest, his shoulders, his arms, caressing the great muscles, tracing the contours and indentations.

  I’m on my back, somehow, and I don’t mind it. I like his bulk above me, like his mouth on mine, like the warmth billowing from his skin. I like the press of his body on mine. I feel his knee slide across my thigh, press down on the mattress between my legs, and then his other knee does the same, and we’re devouring each other’s mouths, his tongue wrestling against mine, seeking and scouring and I’m giving as good as I’m getting, lost to the kiss. Pressure coils low in my belly, and my hands come alive, scraping over his back and now finally I find the courage to grab his ass, and I find it hard and taut and I like it, like the way it feels in my hands, so I spend time caressing him there, exploring, kneading, down to his thighs and back up to his spine, and then return to palming both cheeks in my hands.

  His knees nudge my thighs apart, and my heart crashes in my chest.

  It’s happening. It’s going to happen.

  And I want it to. I’m going to let it.

 
Not just let it, but welcome it. I’m going to go into this eyes wide open, knowing that I may never see this man again, but I’ll have this with him. There’s still fear boiling deep down, but it’s buried and subsumed and weakened. Adam’s gentleness and patience and his obvious attraction to me, his compliments, his reassurance, his understanding of my reticence to answer questions, all of this has weakened the hold of fear, has undercut the hold of the past on me.

  Now, I’m alive, and I’m ravenous for Adam, I’m buzzing with energy, my skin tingling with the feel of his against mine.

  I feel his cock against my inner thigh, and his mouth leaves mine. This is it.

  I look up at him. And instead of pushing into me, he moves back. “Touch yourself, Des. ”

  “Wh-what?”

  “I’ll be right back,” he says, slipping backward off the bed. “Now let me see you touch yourself. ”

  “Why? Where are you going?” I’m losing my heat, the pressure, the need. Fear is bubbling back up. Where is he going, why is he leaving, why does he—?

  He’s back on the bed and his hands are on mine, and he’s pushing my fingers between my thighs, and I feel a zing of electricity as our joined hands find my core, and then our fingers circle my clit and I gasp, and his fingers move into my opening, and I moan, and I push my fingers inside me beside his, heat billowing and pressure clenching and clamping and spreading, and I close my eyes and my head falls back to the pillow. I barely notice him leave the bed, focused on the building crescendo, and then I hear a crinkling of plastic. My eyes flick open to see him ripping open a condom, rolling it over himself.

  My eyes go wide with apprehension now, as I see once again exactly how fucking massive his cock is, and I wonder if this is going to hurt. I’ve always heard it does the first time. I’m not afraid of a little pain, but I’m worried I’ll give away the fact of my virginity.

  I have absolutely no intention of telling him I’m a virgin. None. He doesn’t need to know. He only has this one weekend here, and then he’s going back to Hollywood to make his movies and I’ll just be a memory. That’s fine. I know what I’m getting myself into. I don’t want this to be a big deal. It’s long past due, and he doesn’t need to know, and there’s no way I can explain it all to him.

  He’s watching me, and I wonder momentarily if he can read my mind, if he can see my thoughts somehow, because he’s watching me and his eyes are so sharp, so intelligent, so perceptive, seeing so deeply into me that surely he can perceive the source of my nerves. He’s kneeling between my thighs. I’m no longer touching myself, lost in my thoughts, in my inner discourse.

 
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