UNCHARTED TERRITORY

Slick & Steady 2

I couldn't stay still anymore. The "steady" pace was a beautiful torture, and my body was beginning to revolt against the restraint. As his face buried into the crook of my neck, I arched my back, my skin slick with oil and heat, pressing the fullness of my breasts against his chest.

The friction of his henley against my sensitized nipples was a jolt of pure electricity.

"Please," I brokenly whispered, my voice thick and unrecognizable. I reached up, my fingers tangling deep into his hair, pulling him closer, needing the solid weight of him to anchor me. My legs hooked around his waist instinctively, my heels digging into the backs of his thighs, pulling his hardened heat flush against my core. I was shaking, my breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches as I looked at him with eyes that were hazy and blown wide with need. "Don't... don't make me wait. I need you."

He let out a sharp, fractured sound—half-groan, half-snarl as he felt the damp silk of my locs brush against his arms. For a second, his resolve snapped. He surged upward, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that was anything but steady; it was sloppy, desperate, and tasted of salt and sandalwood. His thumbs swept outward, grazing the peaks of my breasts with a heavy, deliberate pressure that made me cry out against his lips.

But then, he froze.

His forehead dropped against mine, his eyes slammed shut, and I could feel the violent tremor running through his massive frame. He was vibrating with the effort of pulling back.

"Fuck," he hissed under his breath, a raw, guttural curse that vibrated through my chest. He stayed there for a long beat, his chest heaving against mine, the heat radiating off him in waves.

"No," he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, stern register that sent a different kind of chill down my spine. He slowly detangled my legs from his waist, though his hands lingered on my hips, his grip possessive and bruisingly firm. "We’re not rushing this. If I give you everything right now, it’ll be over too fast. And I want to spend hours on you."

He opened his eyes, and they were dark with a predatory, focused hunger that made my heart hammer. He reached for the oil bottle again, his knuckles white as he gripped it.

"Lay back," he commanded, his thumb grazing my lower lip, pulling it down to reveal the slickness of my mouth. "I haven't even finished your stomach yet. You’re going to stay right here and let me take care of you until you can't even speak."

He poured more oil, the liquid gold pooling in the dip of my navel before he began to spread it in slow, agonizing circles across the curve of my belly, his eyes locked onto mine as if challenging me to break first.

The oil on his palms was near-scalding now, heated by the friction of his own skin and the feverish temperature of the room. He didn’t break eye contact as his hands glided upward from my naval, trailing twin paths of slick, golden heat over my ribs.

I gasped, my back arching off the silk sheets as his thumbs finally found the underside of my breasts. He didn't just brush past; he cupped the weight of them, his large hands nearly disappearing beneath the curves. The contrast was staggering his dark, oil-sheened skin against mine, the sheer size of his palms dwarfing me.

"Stay still," he growled, though his own breath was hitching, he released a ragged sound that betrayed how much this was costing him.

He began to work the oil in, his touch firm and rhythmic. He moved in slow, agonizing circles, his thumbs grazing the very edge of my dark, tight centers again and again, but never fully landing. It was a calculated torture. He was hovering in that "sweet spot" of sensation, the friction of the oil making every nerve ending in my chest scream for more than just a graze.