Trashed, p.9
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       Trashed, p.9

         Part #2 of Stripped series by Jasinda Wilder
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“Kiss me again,” she says, leaning into me.

  I don’t need to be asked twice. I pull her to my chest, press my palm to her lower back and cradle her cheek with my other hand. She delves into my mouth with that sweet, strong tongue of hers, and her hands curl at my chest, fingertips digging into the material of my jacket.

  I’m hungry for her, my hands desperate to slip lower, to drag that sexy fucking dress off and reveal her curves and her skin, needing her mouth on my skin, her flesh under my lips, her essence on my tongue. I can’t stay here with her either. I need her alone. I’m hard, aching, throbbing.

  I break the kiss with a low, almost inaudible growl and lead her by the hand down the steps to the green-on-green hallway to my room. I’m so consumed by the need to resume the kiss that I fumble with the key. I finally get the door open, and I don’t even notice the gaudy purple explosion in the sitting room, or the bizarrely archaic headboard and canopy of the bed.

  All I see is Des, her bright expressive eyes, and her hands, and the fall of black hair around her shoulders. She stops, her back to the door, hands flat against the surface at her hips, arms slightly bent, just her ass, hands, and shoulder blades touching the door. It’s a stance of readiness, preparation for flight, for battle. Her eyes shine, fixed on me. Her lips are slightly parted, her chin tilted slightly upward.

  I stand three feet away, and she’s just staring at me, me at her. And then I move. I take a step toward her, and I tug at my bow tie, tossing it aside. I shrug out of my jacket. Unbutton the cuffs of my shirt. I finish unbuttoning my shirt and shrug out of it, my torso clad in a skin-tight white T-shirt. The slim shiny black dress belt is next, tossed aside. Shoes, kicked off. Socks, toed off.

  Her nostrils flare, her eyes go wider, if that’s even possible, and her chest heaves as she sucks in a deep breath.

  “Des,” I say. “It’s okay. ”

  She doesn’t answer, doesn’t do anything, and just holds her about-to-bolt pose, her eyes following my every motion. She hasn’t moved, and is barely breathing.

  I close the space between us, stopping just shy of pressing our bodies together. I just look at her, for a moment, assessing the turmoil in her eyes. She wants me, her eyes roaming my arms and chest and face tell me that. The swell of her chest with each breath tells me that; it also tells me she’s nervous, or scared, or something.

  Why, I don’t know, and I’m not going to ask. I just have to be attentive to her mood, to how she responds to me.

  I descend to my knees slowly, and her eyes follow me, but her head doesn’t tip down. Her mouth falls open a bit wider, and then a breath leaves her in a whoosh as I palm her knee just beneath where the hem of her dress ends on one side. I curl my fingers around the back of her knee; slide my hand down the plump musculature of her calf. Her breath hitches. I wrap my hand around her ankle, lift her foot, and slide the shoe off. She goes down flat-footed, and I slip my fingers between her legs, under the slinky fabric of her dress, to the back of her other leg. I caress her kneecap, around to the back, feather my fingers across the crease, down over the curve of her calf, and lift her foot, remove her other shoe.

  I stand up, dragging both hands up the backs of her legs, lifting the hem of her dress as I rise. When I’m at my full height, her dress is bunched at mid-thigh and she’s breathing deep and fast. I lean in, press my nose to the side of her throat and inhale, slipping my palms around her thighs.

  “Adam…” she breathes.

  I move one hand into her hair, bury my fingers in the thick shimmery cool weight, and bring my mouth to hers, my other hand moving of its own volition up and up and up to the firm globe of her butt. She breathes into my mouth, and then her teeth click against mine as she closes in suddenly and ravenously for the kiss. Her hands lift, press flat against my chest, and her tongue seeks mine, and I pull her flush against me. She feels my erection, I know she does; there’s no way she can miss it. It’s a hot iron rod between us, straining against my boxer-briefs and the fly of my tuxedo slacks.

  She breaks free from the kiss, and her head thunks against the wood of the door.

  “Des? Do you want to go?” I let her dress go, move my hand from the bare smooth hot flesh of her ass out to rest on her hip over the fabric. “I don’t want you to be scared. Or do anything you don’t want to do. ”

  “I don’t want to leave,” she whispers.

  “But you seem like you’re about to freak out. ”

  “I’m nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before. ”

  “Like what?” I tug her hair gently so she has to look at me.

  “This. You and me. I barely know you. I just met you. This is crazy. ” Her hands rest on my chest, her eyes seek mine. “This isn’t what I do. ”

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  “Me neither,” I say.

  Her head tilts to one side. “It’s not?”

  I laugh softly. “No. Not even close. ” I bring my hand to her face, and she presses her cheek into my palm. “Just because I’m an actor doesn’t mean I’m a player or a man-whore. ”

  “You’re just being…aggressive about this. ”

  I kiss her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “When I see something I want, I make it mine. ”

  “And you want me?”

  “Hell yeah I do. ”

  She bites her lower lip between her teeth and then releases it. “So…you’re making me yours?”

  “Yes. ” I tighten my grip on her hip. “Do you want that, Des?”

  She blinks at me, and I can tell she’s deciding. Determination solidifies in her eyes, and she pushes at my chest. I take a step back, give her some space.

  “Yes. I do. ” She lets out a long, slow breath. “Just…I need one thing from you first. ”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Don’t make promises you can’t or won’t keep. ”

  I smile at her. “That’s a basic life principle, for me,” I say. “I never make promises or commitments unless I’m one hundred percent sure I can hold my end up. And this, with you and me? All I know is I like it. I like you. I’m attracted to you in an insanely intense kind of way, and all I know is I want to explore it. I don’t know where it’s gonna go. I just want to try and find out. That’s all. ”

  She smiles, but it’s a little shaky still. “I can deal with that. ”

  And then, instead of reaching for me, or kissing me, or touching me, she turns her back to me, pulls her hair over one shoulder, baring her shoulders and upper back, and the zipper of her dress. She twists her head to look at me over her shoulder, and her gaze on mine is expectant. Offering.

  Instead of ripping at the zipper like I want to, I sidle across the inches separating us, capture her biceps in my hands, and kiss the ridge of her shoulder. The round spot where her arm becomes her shoulder. Across the base of her neck. I tease the edge of her dress at her back; slide my finger between fabric and skin, following the path of my finger with kisses across her warm smooth flesh. She inhales sharply, and I pinch the cold metal pull of the zipper between finger and thumb. I drag my lips across skin, up her neck to behind her ear. She’s not breathing, and I’m not either; we are both breathless with anticipation.

  The opening of the zipper is a loud sound in the silence. Her dress opens to the small of her back, baring an expanse of spine and the black band of a strapless bra, and the tattoo running across her back from shoulder blade to shoulder blade.

  The tattoo is simple, handwritten script, elegant and feminine. It says: The ache for home lives in all of us…

  I run my hands over her ink, wondering what it means to her and not daring to ask. I feel her tense as I touch the tattoo, and I know she’s bracing for the question. So I slip my palms up her back and over her shoulders, down toward her cleavage. Another sharp inhalation, but I’m teasing her, playing games with her. I’m not ready to touch her yet, oh no, not yet, I have to see her first, have get her bare so I c
an soak up her beauty. I merely brush the cups of the dress away, run my palms between skin and dress to push the material down. It falls, pools around her feet. She steps out, and stands facing away from me clad in a strapless black bra and a matching black thong.

  I’m breathless. “You…are incredible,” I tell her.

  “No, I’m not—”

  I don’t give her a chance to finish. I spin her, crash my mouth against hers to silence her protest. “Yes. You are. ” I pull back to look into her eyes. “‘I’m beautiful. ’ Say it. ”

  She turns to face me. “Adam, I—”

  “Say it. ” She blinks hard, bites her lower lip, and I can’t handle that, not at all. I take that plump lower lip between my teeth, stretch it out, let it go, and claim her mouth. “Des. Say it. ”

  “I’m beautiful. ” She can’t help smiling as she says it. “Is that better?”

  “A little. ” I grin back at her.

  I reach for her, but she dances backward. “You can’t get me naked without letting me have some of you bare, too. ”

  I hold my arms out. “Go for it, babe. ”

  She takes the corner of her lower lip between her teeth again, steps forward, slips her fingers under the stretched cotton of my undershirt. Instead of lifting it off me like I was expecting, though, Des does the unexpected: she unhooks the fly of my slacks, tugs the zipper down, and her eyes go to mine. Her hands slide under the loosened waistband of the slacks and then they are around my ankles and I’m stepping out. Her eyes drift down to my tented underwear.

  She blushes.

  I reach for her again, but she shakes her head. “I’m in nothing but my underwear, so I get to have you the same way. ”

  I laugh and let her peel my shirt off, and she tosses the white undershirt onto the pile of our clothes, hers and mine mixed together on the floor of the foyer. My eyes roam her body. Tan, taut skin, curves for days, legs long and strong, and her eyes, bright and liquid brown and feverish.

  I take her hand, walk backward, leading her up into the bedroom. She hops up the last step, and her breasts bounce heavily. I don’t let her get two steps into the bedroom before I’m jerking her towards me so she stumbles into me. I slide my lips over hers, and she responds immediately, lifting up on her toes to deepen the kiss, and my blood pounds like thunder in my ears and my heart hammers in my chest. Her hands are moving in slow circles on my back, from shoulders to waist, shoulders to waist, each time dipping lower, as if working up the courage to grab my ass.

  I find the hook-and-eye fastener of her bra, pull the edges together and loosen one eyelet, the second, and then the third and last. She’s pressed against my chest, so the bra is caught between us; I lean back without breaking the kiss, and the undergarment falls to the floor between us. Des’s mouth goes still against mine, her body tensing.

  “Let me see you,” I say, stepping back and taking both of her hands in mine so she can’t cover herself.

  I stare at her. Take in her beauty. God, I knew she had curves galore, but…damn. The girl is a goddess. Big, heavy tits, high and firm, round and peaked with dark areolae, thick nipples puckered into hard beads. Thighs I want to bury my face in, and her ass…goddamn. I’ve had my hands on it, but now that she’s bare, I have to touch it again. I step closer, slide my hands over her hips and clutch her full, round ass, which is delightfully bare except for the string of the thong.

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  I’ll go ahead and say it: I like a big ass. So with Des, I’m in heaven.

  I spin her around and let go of her hands, run my palms down her arms and get a good long look at her ass, and then I have to touch it again, have to hold it. Have to press up against it, and I know she feels my desire. I can’t help but nestle my painfully rock-hard cock between those lush, round globes and imagine burying myself deep inside her, just like this.

  Not yet, though. She’s shaking, trembling, and she’s barely breathing. Need to go slow, prime her. Get her ready.

  It’s time to make good on my promise from yesterday.

  “I need to hear you moan. ” I guide her gently toward the bed, and she trips, rights herself and turns, covering her chest with her arms. I pull her hands away. “Never cover yourself, Des. Those tits of yours are too fucking perfect to ever be hidden. ”

  “Adam, Jesus. You act like you’ve never seen tits before. ” She shrugs, and pulls her hands free, but doesn’t bar her arms over herself again.

  “Not like yours I haven’t. ” I step up to her, run my hand up her side, and then, finally, at long last, I have her breast in my hand.

  God, so big, so heavy and soft. I run my palm over the swaying mound of her left boob, then thumb her nipple. She gasps and flinches.

  I look into her eyes and flick her nipple with my thumbnail, and she flinches again, hard, her mouth falling open. “You’re sensitive as hell, aren’t you?” I ask.

  “I guess so,” Des murmurs, her eyes wide and fearful and searching mine.

  “Then you’ll really love this,” I say.

  I lift her breast to my mouth and run my tongue over her nipple in a slow, wet lick.


  “Same thing,” I say, grinning at her, and then close my lips around the erect nub and suckle.

  “Fuck!” she curses, and her hands go wild, passing over my shoulders, clutching at me, and one of her hands scrapes over my scalp and she grips my short black hair in her fist.

  “You like that?” I ask.


  I lick again, and then suck, flick her nipple with my tongue back and forth a dozen times until she’s gasping. “You like it?”

  “Yes…” She cups the back of my head, holding my face against her breast. “I like it. A lot. ”

  I push her so the bed meets the back of her legs, and she sits, involuntarily. I go to my knees between her thighs, pressing kisses to the tender flesh of the inside of her breast, moving across her sternum to the other side, and I take her right nipple in my mouth and make her moan again.

  I skim my hands over her thighs, grip the crease where hip meets leg and press my thumbs into the flesh and muscle, drive them closer and closer to her core. Her head falls back on her neck and she’s breathing so hard she’s nearly hyperventilating, but her hands are clutching my forearms for dear life, but she isn’t pulling me away or stopping me. I fall back to sit on my heels and just look at her.

  Looking up at her, watching her, I hook my fingers in the string of the thong circling her waist. She’s watching me back, brown eyes wide, a little nervous, anticipatory. I tug down, and the triangular scrap of fabric covering her core rolls down and away. Her chest swells with a breath, and catches. Her eyes narrow and her mouth falls open. I pull some more, and the thong catches on her butt.

  “Lift up, babe,” I say.

  She hesitates, and then lifts her backside up off the bed, and I strip the underwear off, toss it aside. And now she’s totally naked for me, bared, vulnerable, and beautiful.

  “God, Des. So fucking sexy. ” I run my palms up her thighs, and back down.

  I feel her body tense, but she doesn’t move otherwise. This time, my hands drift up between her legs, pressing her thighs open, and she complies with delicacy and demure hesitancy, her eyes sliding closed.

  Even her pussy is gorgeous. She’s trimmed but not shaved, and her lips down there are as plump and kissable as the ones on her face. She opens her eyes and sees me staring at her core.

  “Oh my god. ” She blushes, her tan skin flushing, and she tries to close her legs, but I’m between her knees. “Stop, Adam. Don’t look at me like that. ”

  “Like what?”

  She shrugs uncomfortably and tries to cover her pussy with her hands. “Like I’m—”

  “Beautiful? Delicious? Someone I want to spend hours pleasuring?”

  She closes her eyes and squeezes them tight, as if fightin
g with herself, warring about something internally. “You’re nuts. ”

  “How about this?” I say, and let her cover herself with both hands. She’s shy, suddenly. I trail my fingers down the tops of her thighs to her knees, and then drag my fingertips back up along the insides of her thighs. “How about I let you cover up, and I’ll just see if I can get you to move your hands on your own. I want to see you, Des. All of you. I want to touch you. I want to kiss you. ”

  “Kiss me where?”

  I let a hungry smile play across my lips. “Everywhere, Des. ” I slide my fingers around the circumference of her thighs, as close to her core as I can get. She shivers and I can feel her fingers trembling. Her fingers splay, and I slip one long middle finger between the gaps of her fingers, touching slick skin. “Here. I want to see and touch and taste you here. ”

  She makes a sound in the back of her throat, and then opens her eyes, fixes them on me. “Jesus. ”

  “That’s not my name. ”

  “Adam. ”

  “Better. ” I put my hands over hers. “Now. Look into my eyes and tell me you want me to stop. ”

  “I can’t. ”

  “I know you can’t. ” I brush my thumbs across her nipples, lift her breasts and let them fall with a bounce. “Because you know you want this. You want to let me touch you. ”

  She keeps her eyes on mine, and I see the internal war raging and I want to know what she’s afraid of, what has her so conflicted. But I don’t ask. Instead, I skate my palms over her thighs, over her hips, up her ribs to her tits and back down. I see her eyes waver with indecision, and then she lifts her chin, determination filling her gaze, and moves her hands away, resting them on my shoulders.

  I grin and trace her opening with my index finger.

  She moans, and her eyelids flutter.

  * * *

  I’ve touched myself. I’ve given myself orgasms. But that is totally unlike the sensation of Adam’s finger sliding up my opening.

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  I can’t stop this. I want to, and yet I don’t. I want to feel his fingers inside me, and I want to feel his mouth on me. I know he’s planning on going down on me, and I want that. I do. Fuck, I do, so badly.

  But I’m scared. I’m terrified.

  I should tell him I’m a virgin.

  But I’m not going to. He’ll stop, and he’ll make a big deal over it.

  And all he’s doing right now is touching me.

  He’d want an explanation as to how I can be a twenty-two-year-old virgin. He’ll want the story, and I can’t give him that. I can’t. I won’t. It’s not something I tell anyone, ever. It happened a long time ago, and I should be over it, but I’m not. And that’s part of why I’m doing this, why I’m still here, why I’m fighting my fears and the turmoil in my soul, why I’m shaking like a leaf, my heart hammering and my breath coming in fast, deep gasps. I don’t want to let my past dictate my present or future anymore. I want this, really truly deeply want Adam, want to do this with him, but I’m afraid. Which is why I have to push myself past my fear, why I have to let this happen: so I can move on. So I can find some semblance of normality. And as long as I let my fear rule me, that’ll never happen.

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