Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1) (9 page)

His free hand glides past the side of my breast without really touching, nipples tightening instinctively. He cups my behind, pulling me in and my body rocks into him, desperate to feel the length of him against me, the drag of his lips.

‘You’re so very pretty,’ he whispers, pressing his mouth against mine in invitation. I take it, leaning into him, wrapping my arms around his neck. His lips are soft and unfamiliar and
amazing
as he opens wider, deepening the kiss, the taste of wine registering on my tongue. Both touch and taste are so unravelling, I tighten my arms, almost curling into him.

Small, exploratory kisses become deeper and wetter. I moan into his mouth. Everything becomes frantic for a moment—teeth and lips dragging until he moves me backwards, resting me against a high-backed sofa. My breathing is ragged as he runs his hands down my arms, pressing his body against mine once more.

‘Let’s slow down.’ His words are whispered into the skin of my neck, their echo and following tongue starting fires everywhere—intimate places, suddenly burning with need.
How about getting me there faster instead,
the need screams

But then his mouth moves over my neck, alternating between kisses, flicking tongue and grazing teeth. I curl my hands against the sofa edge, holding onto the moment, pursing my lips to silence a trembling moan as his mouth finds mine again. He kisses my bottom lip, taking it into his own and holding it.

If the frontal cortex is responsible for decision making, maybe my bottom lip is its cut off switch. I can’t process what he’s doing or how silly this might look as he bites, gently at first, testing my reactions, increasing the pressure with synchronicity to my sighs. The pressure resonates lower—I’m turned on and shocked, my breath now a small, quivering thing. As he releases my lip, the blood rushes back into the flesh with a subtle sting. I don’t have a chance to reflect on his action— my reactions—as his full, flat tongue then licks it.

‘So
fucking
pretty,’ he growls.

It’s almost as though the growl resonates between my legs.

One hand comes to rest beneath my dress, fingers resting just above my knee. He watches my face with an expression so serious, almost as though waiting for interruption, trailing them upwards to the triangle of fabric between my thighs. I offer no objections as his finger brushes lightly, pressing a damp crease in the fabric. Closing my eyes, my body begins to tremble as his finger moves slow and rhythmically.

‘Relax,’ he whispers, moving to loosen the buttons of my dress. His fingers work quickly from bottom to top until it hangs open, his hands spanning my waist. I stand half exposed, dress hanging open at my sides, thinking I could melt under his gaze, be reduced to a puddle of need at his feet. With a devilish smile, he slides the dress from my shoulders where it pools, forgotten, on the floor. ‘I knew you weren’t so conservative.’

Blinking heavily, I glance down at my underwear: my black lace push up bra and undies are sheer and almost transparent. I send a silent thanks to the knicker-drawer fairy for ensuring decent, if not matching, underwear were at the top of the pile this morning. Because, really, it could’ve been much worse.
Never mind about clean knickers in the case of an accident. I’ll never wear old nana knickers again.

‘Little secret for you,’ he whispers. ‘Your shoes were your tell.’ His mouth curls between small, nipping kisses, his hands still circling my waist. ‘They scream sex.’

I thought they screamed short, but that works for me. I’m hardly covered, barely touched, and absolutely on edge, but the fact that he’s mentioned shoes again, doesn’t go unnoticed.

Pulling back, his mouth is wet and a little swollen, and if my lips are any indication, I expect tingling, too. His eyes travel the length of my body, linger on my feet and slide back up my legs.

‘I think I’m going to leave them on, but otherwise strip you.’ His hand suddenly cups between my thighs, his gaze back on my face. ‘Then I’m going to fuck you. Tell me you want that, too.’

Oh, god, yes.
I’m hot, my every nerve ending tingling in anticipation. I
ache
to be filled. Leaning forward to kiss him my answer, he stills me with a finger at my chest before my lips have the chance to meet his.

‘I want to hear.’ An eyebrow rises to match his intonation and while he doesn’t smile, it’s there, hovering in suggestion. How is it he senses my discomfort? And no one asks this sort of thing outside of books and maybe, movies. Hasn’t anyone ever told him that? All of a sudden, I can’t for the life of me think why as I raise my eyes to his. Burning, flecked with amber and gold, they demand
say it
and
I dare you
and
tell me you want to fuck.

I don’t so much answer as sigh, the flush of arousal and discomfort branding my chest. ‘I want,’ I whisper, taking his hand and pressing it harder between my legs, ‘you . . . here.’

His nonsmile widens and my hand falls away, my eyes rolling closed as I melt into his fingers, my words echoing in my ears. All too quickly, he moves, turning me until I’m facing the sofa.
What?
I’ll admit I’m a little shocked, my spine stiffening.
Is this how the cool kids do it these days?
The straps of my bra move down my arms, his lips at my shoulder. At this point, I lose all train of thought.

Fingertips brush my ribs, his hands slipping around to my breasts, the hard press of him behind as startling as his teeth on my neck. I make a small sound, just a whimper, and hear it deepen into a libidinous moan as his teeth bear down into a tantalising bite. The sensation echoes a lower ache as I raise a hand to the back of his head pulling him toward me, desperate to repeat the feeling, almost bucking against him in need. His low chuckle reverberates through my insides, hands now on my waist as he turns me to face him once again. I don’t mind admitting, my relief is immediate. If I’m going to do this, I want to look at him.

Placing my hands against the back of the sofa, he murmurs, ‘Don’t let go.’

Three words, commanding and caressing in equal measure, desire spiking in my veins.

His thumbs stroke my peaked nipples before he bends to run the point of his tongue across each in turn. It’s so hot seeing him lick me, his body bent in an elegant arch, accentuating our size differences, making me feel incredibly fragile. Dainty. Through thick lashes, his gaze crawls up my chest to my own. I close my eyes and I whimper as his tongue continues to swirl.

‘Keep them open, I like that you’ll watch.’

Oh, god . . .
  

Fingers touch and tease where his mouth is lacking, hurting almost, and heightening the need between my legs. Fevered sensations swell through my skin; I want to reach out, run my nails across his spine, share the perfect agony, but somehow his words and manner keep me in place. Not that I’m quiet as he increases his focus, his mouth hungry against such a sensitive place.

‘Please!’ I cry out.

In one fluid motion, he drops to his knees.

Panting, I become aware, as I stare down at him, that he’s still fully clothed while I am wearing nothing but knickers and heels. Not the usual
show me yours
followed by a reciprocation. I’m almost naked in front of a hot man.
On his knees.

His ravenous gaze makes me feel wanton, provocative, and brave. I part my legs a little as he hooks his fingers into the elastic at my hips, pulling my underwear down to my knees. Sitting back on his heels, he appraises me through hooded eyes and long, dark lashes, his breath a soft caress. It all feels so good—his eyes, his breath, his watching me.

I close my eyes and let the sensations flow through my body . . . then I remember my hiatus from waxing. How mortifying; my nether regions haven’t felt the tear of wax in months.
Wasn’t Barbie-bare the new thing?
Though trimmed, I probably look like a cavewoman in comparison and begin to stammer, attempting to close my legs.

‘Shh,’ he murmurs, hands firmly on my hips. ‘It’s a little retro, but so very . . .
blonde
. What begins as a teasing admonishment sounds more like appreciation, almost a groan.

My embarrassing train of thought is no more.

As he leans forward, brushing his nose against me, I’m surprised my legs are still supporting me at all. I’m bound by my underwear, my arms have slid across the sofa and my chest is thrust out. Shackled by my own longing, feelings coalesce and consume: I feel vulnerable, erotic, indecent . . . a confusing mixture of thrill and disgrace. I fight the deep-seated instinct to squirm under his gaze as he deftly pulls the scrap of cloth the rest of the way down my legs. Catching one foot, he widens my stance and I whimper as he parts me, stroking a finger along my slick ribbon of flesh. Barely a touch, his finger moves backwards and forwards, igniting every nerve ending. My legs tremble and I close my eyes again, pressing my lips together in some pretence of control, gasping as he bares my clit. I cry out and arch my back at the sudden invasion, his fingers lowering before pushing inside.

‘Wet,’ I think he says, though the sound is more of a masculine groan. It’s almost as though the evidence of my arousal is some source of awe. His fingers drive in deeper, repeating again and again as his eyes watch my face, moving to where his fingers work me and back again. ‘Such sweet lips. I don’t know which I want to kiss most.’

My brain breaks right there. Misfiring synapses interrupting service. His words are
so
arousing.
Aural
sex; unfamiliar but so very effective, vindicated by the pulsing between my legs. Driven by instinct, and an increasing need, my body moves in rhythm with his fingers, hips thrusting and matching his pace.

As he places both hands against my hips, I actually groan—unhappily—before making a whole series of different noises when his hands slide around to my arse, pulling me toward him. Toward his face. His tongue strokes my swollen flesh, opening me. Licking and sucking.
Devouring.

He moans, and as I’d imagined, the sound reverberates through my insides, pushing tiny noises from my throat. With a hand behind my knee, he lifts it over his shoulder. My fingers tighten on the sofa back, something hot and sleek rushing through me, his tongue merciless in its assault, flicking and driving circles around and around my swollen clit. I writhe and moan, the sensation explosive as he brushes the inflamed bud with his lightly stubbled chin.

‘Oh, please, Kai!’ I rasp, meaning both
please stop
and
don’t you fucking dare
as he takes the sensitive flesh into his mouth, sucking and grazing it exquisitely with his teeth.

The noises I make are raw and needy, my body stiffening, driven over the edge into climax. Imploding, exploding, I arch with my hands at his head, struggling for freedom from his mouth; the feeling is so intense, I almost can’t take it. But Kai doesn’t give me the choice as he continues to hold me, pressuring me with his mouth and coaxing my orgasm further. My flesh is electrified, every nerve ending screaming for release. It seems impossible that I can feel more, but I do as he groans into the very core of me, drawing my orgasm out. I’m frayed. Whimpering. Supported by the back of the sofa and held in place by the man between my legs, I’m torn between it all being too much, and somehow, just right. 

With a last tormenting flick of his tongue, he releases my over-sensitized flesh, sitting back on his heels and lowering my leg.

‘The ladder,’ he rasps, his tongue briefly tasting his bottom lip. ‘I’ve been imagining what you’d sound like when you come.’

I close my eyes, hiding from my wetness glistening on his chin. I’m panting, all jellied legs and heaving chest. The only reply I have is a further series of mewls of pleasure and, I think, lament. I’ve never really listened to myself come and I’m not about to start now. Of course, I don’t know whether to be embarrassed that he’s mentioned it, or thrilled.

A wet kiss at my navel startles me, his hands cupping my butt as he moves to stand. I’m too blissed out to protest as he lifts me. I cling to him compliantly, though I’m mindful of the sharp point of my heels that I realise I’m still wearing.
The only thing I’m wearing.

Lowered to a huge bed covered in crisp linens, I watch through heavy lids as he pulls off his shirt. His hair is a mess from my hands, his shirt bearing a damp badge of my wetness at his waist. And while he’s hot in his clothes, as he peels out of them, he’s a visual treat. Skin as I’d imagined—caramel tan over defined muscle—fine hair trails from his navel, disappearing into his pants. Up until this moment, I’d never believed the term
happy trail
as an appropriate one, but I’m willing to bet at the end of that path stands something to make me
very
pleased.

My eyes follow his hands as he pulls loose the fly of his pants.

‘You look lovely. Relaxed, thoroughly fucked.’

I bite my tongue to prevent pointing out the obvious. Depends on your definition, I suppose. Not that I’m complaining. Hell
,
I’m way too full of endorphins to reply.

‘Content,’ he continues, aiming a roguish smile my way.

Resting a hand against the nightstand, muscle sinew and veins stand to attention as he reaches into a drawer. My body betrays its sated state, my own muscles tightening low. Holding a small foil packet, he tears the corner with his teeth.

‘Do you want to . . .’ He glances down meaningfully, adding a soft laugh as I shake my head staccato. And he definitely wasn’t at the end of the line when
those
were handed out. He slides black boxers down his legs, eyes not moving from mine as he deftly rolls the condom along his length.

‘Enough.’ His voice is soft but determined as his teeth graze a tantalising trail over my body. Each nip and lick reduces me to small, helpless movements and noises of pleasure. Kissing the inside of my knee, he lifts it gently, the heel of my shoe sinking into the bedding. I struggle to raise myself on my elbows as his lips curl into a smile.