Under His Skin (For His Pleasure, Book 20) (9 page)

She loved his smell, the saltiness of his
skin, the wetness of his lips and tongue as he slathered her nipples with his
saliva, licking and flicking and sucking.
 
Kennedy’s cleft was moist and then
soaking and then clenching like a tight fist between her legs.

“Oh my God,” she murmured.
 
“Easton…”

“Not yet,” he warned, sliding down her
stomach, kissing and licking her skin as he went even further.
 

He unbuttoned her pants, grinning as she
writhed beneath him, moaning, completely taken over by her desire for him.
 
Slowly, Easton unzipped her and then
slid her pants down her legs, revealing her panties.
 

“I might come soon,” she admitted.

He ignored her.
 
“I can smell you,” he said, “and it
makes me want to go inside you with my tongue and taste every last bit of
you.
 
I want to spread you open,
Kennedy, and fuck you with my tongue until you can’t stand it anymore.”

As Easton said this, he began subtly
massaging her folds through her panties.
 
The mere touch of his fingers caused her to cry out, and her legs
started to tremble.
 
She was weak
and getting weaker, unable to resist the urge to climax as his deft fingers
stroked her just the right way.

Slowly, slowly, he slid her panties to
the side and then he was leaning in between her legs, his tongue darting out to
taste her slickness.

Kennedy threw her head back and shut her
eyes tightly, clenching her teeth as her lower body contracted, a hot wave of
pleasure concentrating in her pussy.
 

Easton suddenly slid her panties off in
one quick motion.

Then his tongue stroked her again, a
little bit longer this time, sustaining the intensity of what she was feeling
just that much more.

“You’re getting even wetter,” he
announced, and then his fingers were entering her slit, probing, hitting her
clitoris over and over as his tongue licked around the edges of her pussy.

Kennedy gripped his shoulders as her hips
started to involuntarily lift, pushing herself up and into him.
 
He obliged her by grabbing hold of her
buttocks with his hands and pressing his mouth tightly against her wet slit.

His mouth was all over her pussy, his
tongue inside her, slathering her with his attention as she began to
climax.
  
She nearly passed
out, actually seeing dark spots for a moment as the orgasm reached its apex and
Easton continued to tongue fuck her.

Finally, when she was done, he turned her
onto her stomach.
 
“Now I’m going to
fuck you from behind,” he told her.
 
“Can you take it?”

“Yes,” she sighed, her entire body still
thrumming from the incredible orgasm he’d just given her.

“Are you absolutely sure you can take all
of me?”

“Yes,” she moaned.
 
“I need it.
 
All of it, Easton.
 
Please.”

She heard him unzipping and pulling
himself out and then she felt him pressing his hard shaft up and between her
legs.
 
He slid it back and forth
along her pussy lips, making her cry out with anticipation.

His hands were on her hips, grabbing her
forcefully as he inserted his large cock slowly, slowly, slowly into her
hole.
 
As he pushed into her, she
felt herself expanding and contracting, fitting herself to him in some strange
way.

Easton groaned.
 
“Goddamn it, you’re so fucking tight,
Kennedy.
 
And wet.
 
You’re dripping all over my cock.”

She moaned, her head hanging against the
floor as she concentrated on allowing him all the way into her.
 
Kennedy wanted to feel him filling her
until he could go no further, taking him in and holding him with her entire
being.

By the time he finished his first stroke,
Kennedy knew it wouldn’t be long.
 
He was so incredibly hard and excited, and she could hear his breathing
intensify as he slowly pulled in and out, stroking more quickly.

Soon he was fucking her, his hands still
on her hips, pulling her into him as he thrust his own hips against her, his
groin slapping into her buttocks rhythmically as he split her open with his
shaft.

She was wet, lubricated, and able to
enjoy the size of him as he plundered her.
 

“I’m coming again, Easton,” she cried
out, as his rhythmic pounding overcame her.
 
Her arms shook violently.

“I’m coming too,” he groaned, and then
she felt him releasing with extra fury, and he slammed against her over and
over again, but it was slowing now.

When he was finished, he stayed inside
her, draped over her, one of his hands pressed against the floor, holding
himself up as he continued to slide into her.
 

“That was amazing,” she whispered.

“You have no idea,” he laughed.

“I think I do, actually,” she replied.

***

Kennedy came out of the bathroom after
her quick shower wearing Easton’s t-shirt and nothing else.
 
It was large enough on her that it was
practically a nightgown.

Easton was busy in the kitchen, cooking
what looked like a five-course-meal.
 

As she entered the room, he was stirring
one pot, then adding pepper to a large pan of chicken breasts, and then he
moved to the center island and started dicing tomatoes and onions with the rapid-fire
technique of an accomplished chef.

“I thought we were having cereal,”
Kennedy said, slightly in awe of him.
 
Then again, she always felt in awe of Easton Rather.

He glanced over his shoulder at her.
 
“Would you mind grabbing a bag of mixed
greens out of the fridge?”

“Sure,” she said, blinking in surprise as
she opened the refrigerator and found a bag of fresh greens.
 
As she turned, Easton had gone back to
the stove and was continuing to add spices and fine-tune his culinary
masterpiece.

Kennedy placed the bag on the granite
counter of the island, watching as Easton gracefully moved to the cabinets,
then back to the stove, then to the island.

“Help me mix these veggies into the
salad,” he said, pausing to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

The smell of the cooking chicken breasts
started to filter over to where they were standing, and Kennedy’s mouth began
watering.
 
“That smells amazing,”
she told him.
 
“But I feel
guilty.
 
You didn’t have to do all
of this.”

“I know,” he smiled gently, his eyes fixing
on her with a tenderness that caught her by surprise.
 
“But I wanted to.”

About fifteen minutes later, they sat
down to eat at the table together.
 
The meal was as delicious as it smelled, and Kennedy found that she was
absolutely ravenous.
 
While they ate,
they chatted a little, avoiding the heavier subjects of the problems with Red or
Dean’s debts to Jimmy DeLuca.

Eventually, she was starting to feel so
relaxed that it was almost as though they’d always been like this.
 
Spending time together in his home,
eating, cooking, laughing and making love.

Because of her slowly calming nerves, she
finally decided to ask him a personal question.

“Why did you take up kickboxing?” Kennedy
asked him, spearing some lettuce with her fork and waiting for him to tell her
it was none of her business.

Easton raised his eyebrows and dabbed at
his lips with the linen napkin before answering.
 
“That’s a complicated question,” he
said.

“I don’t mean to pry—“

“It’s fine,” he said, flashing a
grin.
 
“I don’t mind telling
you.”
 
He glanced out the window
momentarily, as if looking into the past.
 
“My father was someone who believed in raising us with a lot of
discipline and fortitude.
 
He’d been
taught how to box by his father, and his grandfather had fought as well.
 
It’s in our blood, I suppose.
 
I didn’t take to it very naturally as a
child, and I think it disappointed my Dad.
 
Dean was always the one who liked a good scrap.
 
When we were younger, he appeared to
have the talent and drive and my father was fixated on turning him into a world
champion.”

“I assume that didn’t quite work out as
planned,” Kennedy offered.

Easton nodded.
 
“No, it didn’t.
 
Because Dean liked to fight but he
didn’t have the stomach for the discipline, the training, the work.
 
And as we got older, I started getting
resentful of the way my Dad favored him.
 
So I decided to become a fighter anyway, and trained on my own, at a
kickboxing gym.
 
Dad thought
kickboxing was for losers, and he let me know it at every turn.
 
Real boxers boxed—poseurs did
kickboxing.
 
Dean agreed with him,
and the two of them used to give me massive amounts of shit about it.”

“Did you like kickboxing?” she asked him,
forgetting to eat, just happy that he was telling her about himself.
 
It felt special, like she’d been invited
to take part in a very private interview with her favorite celebrity.

“I never liked fighting,” Easton
admitted, his eyes dull.
 
“I liked
proving them wrong.
 
That’s what
drove me.”

“But you got quite good.”

“I refused to be anything less than the
best,” he said.
 
“I still can
remember when I was seventeen and Dad kept needling me about my kickboxing,
continuing to make his digs about how it was a fake sport and so inferior to
real boxing.
 
I got so sick of it
that I told him to bring me the best boxing prospect he knew and I’d fight him
on the spot, sight unseen, using just my boxing, no kicking.
 
Part of me was serious about the
challenge, but mostly I was just mouthing off because I was so tired of Dad’s
constant criticism.”

Kennedy was horrified.
 
“Your father didn’t really take you
seriously, did he?”

Easton smiled grimly.
 
“He sure did.
 
Dad loved a good fight and he liked to
be right.
 
So the next day he took
me to the gym that he and Dean were training at, and he brought in a ringer to
fight me.
 
The guy was twenty-three
years old, a national Golden Gloves champion, Olympic alternate, and he was
going to turn pro in the next six months.
 
He was a beast, an absolute killer with knockout power in both hands.”

“And your father put you in the ring with
him, hoping you’d lose.”

Easton laughed.
 
“You obviously didn’t grow up with a
father like mine, or you wouldn’t sound so shocked.”

“What kind of parent would intentionally
put their child in harm’s way like that?”

Easton’s jaw worked, as if her comment
had put him off in some way.
 
She
realized that perhaps she’d overstepped her bounds, but the idea of Easton’s
father doing that to him had disgusted her.

“Anyway,” he said, continuing on with his
story, “we got in the ring and the guy tried to kill me.
 
I’d never been hit that hard in my life—before
or since.
 
My ears rang for weeks
afterward, I had terrible headaches, and I had trouble sleeping for a long time.”

“My stomach’s turning,” she said, shaking
her head.

“But in the end, I knocked him out, put
him in the hospital,” Easton told her.
 
As he said it, it was like he was remembering the war he’d been through,
and his eyes had gone cold and flinty.
 
“I knocked him out cold and then I turned and stared my Dad down.
 
He never said another word about my
kickboxing after that.”

The food had gone cold and something warm
had definitively left the room, Kennedy thought.
 
It was like a ghost had entered the
place.
 
Easton’s entire demeanor had
shifted, and now she regretted bringing the subject up in the first place.
 

Why hadn’t she just left well enough
alone?

Easton got up and began clearing the
table.
 
Kennedy stood and helped
him, carrying her plate to the sink, trying to get his attention as she
walked.
 
She tried to catch his eye
and perhaps exchange a smile, a word, something.
 
But Easton was distant and quiet,
seemingly lost in thought and perhaps bad memories.