Free Hell Bent by Emma Fawkes Page B

their span. I instantly feel the flood between my legs, and my eyes want to roll backward in my head. There surely cannot be any better feeling than what I am experiencing this very moment.
    I am wrong.
    The fingers slowly massage me, the web pressing into my flesh with regular rhythm. I drop the dishcloth where it lies and lean back against him, but he pushes me upright so his hands can continue to move.
    “Not until I say,” he whispers in my ear even though there is no one to hear him but me.
    I close my eyes and wait, feeling the fingers move over my sensitive skin. I want to lay my hands over his, to move them, but I know I must be patient.
    I finally feel the reward, and I recognize that he is in control. For some reason, this not only doesn’t bother me—I crave it. His fingers have risen a bit to slide beneath my waistband. I freeze with longing, with anticipation. With one smooth move of his hand, he unbuttons my waistband and I feel my shorts drop to the floor and pool around my ankles. The sensation of cool air only heightens the heat I am feeling within.
    The fingers are back, sliding downward, pushing my panties in their grasp. I feel his foot between mine, and he gently pries my stance open. The fingers have returned, but this time they are petting the front of me, lacing their tips through my shaven pubis…and downward. I want to collapse, but he has one arm in position to hold me back against him, pressing my bare bottom into his crotch.
    I try to reach backward, to lower his zipper, but his hand clamps down upon mine quickly, halting progress. He is completely in control. The rough fabric of his pants is grazing the tender skin of my bottom, and the effect is unbelievably erotic. This is nothing compared to what is to come.
    Without warning, his hands are opening my pussy, an he is massaging it gently, as if pulling back the petals of a flower that is about to blossom. One long index finger is entering me while the other hand is rubbing against the swollen, electric nub of my clit. I groan, and my legs give way, but his knee comes up between my thighs and holds me steady. I am moaning, trying to turn and bury myself against him, but he still holds me in position.
    I think I will lose my mind with the sensations blossoming throughout my body. I am unable to control them. I cannot move, and I cannot intensify them so that I could release. He is stopping me just at the crest and then backing me off again. Each cycle of this increases the longing.
    He is kissing the back of my neck now, his lips nibbling at my ear lobes, and his breath streaming into my ear canal. I am squirming, trying to rotate my head to find his lips, but again, he will not let me.
    I moan again, and I can hear his breath quickening. There is no release in the near future, and this is torture and heaven at once.
    When I think I will pass out, his hand suddenly plunges beneath my crotch, and he rotates me. I am pressed now against his chest. Opening my legs, I wrap one around his hip, holding on while his hand continues to work my pussy. He picks me up and slowly takes a few steps in the direction of my bedroom. At some point, I feel the soft fabric of my quilted comforter beneath my tender bottom.
    Before me, Bryce stands and slowly disrobes. As he pulls his shirt over his head, I see that his entire torso is a mosaic of tattoos, symbols, and scenes from imagination to history. There are uneven patches of skin where the ink illustrations appear interrupted, and I recognize the signs of recent skin graft surgeries. They must be from the injuries he’d sustained in Iraq. I want to touch him and kiss his wounds, but his eyes tell me to lay still.
    As soon as his shirt clears his head, his hand comes down upon my pussy again, rekindling the tantalizing massage that takes me to the crest and then drops me before I can succumb.
    His pants finally drop to the floor, and like his torso, his hips and buttocks continue the panoramic display of