Free Maybe by Amber L. Johnson Page A

when his mouth breathes hot and thick through my tank top, and he nudges my breast with his nose before lightly biting my nipple through the shirt.
    “God, that feels good. You feel so good. I want you to touch me like the first night. You haven’t even kissed me in almost a week.” My hips roll into him, and he buries his face in my neck, letting out a deep groan. Yet he kisses me there and on my jaw, across my cheek, until his nose brushes mine and my lips part waiting for him.
    He doesn’t disappoint, and this attraction, this thing I’m not supposed to feel, overcomes me. Even though it shouldn’t be this, it’s all I want.
    “Turn around,” he whispers, and I do. With slow restraint, he lifts his hand to my arm and pulls me onto his lap, turning so that my back is against his chest. My eyes flick to the mirror and watch his hands move from my arms to my hips and settle onto my thighs. He breathes into my ear while his fingers dig in and pull my legs to either side of the chair.
    My toes instinctively flex, and I point them, balancing with the support of my shoes. Tyler’s head lifts, and he catches my eye in the mirror, a slow grin forming on his lips. His thumbs are running circles along the inside of my thighs, and I breathe out loudly from the sensations.
    He lifts a hand to my nipple, and I shift against him in response.
    “I think I know my limits, but maybe I should check.” His chin nudges my head to the side, and I crane my neck to give him better access to kiss and run his teeth over my skin. Instinctively, I reach an arm up to wrap around his neck.
    “Show me how you like to be touched.” His words are soft but demanding, and my body shakes at the request. His hand rests just at the crease of my thigh and pelvis, waiting for instruction. I drop my hand onto his and move it in between my legs.
    Tyler shakes his head and rests his chin on my shoulder, meeting my eyes in the mirror once more. Over my clothes, pressing harder, he runs circles across the barrier between his palm and my softest skin.
    Taking the initiative, he slides his hand higher until his fingers are resting lightly above the waistband of my shorts. I urge him on with a shift of my hips. He presses against my back and grips my other hip with his hand tightly, while his fingers disappear beneath the fabric. They stop mere millimeters away from where I want them the most.
    “Here?”
    I nod at his question and whimper slightly.
    “Or here?” His hand drops lower as my legs spread wider and his fingertips brush against me.
    Tyler begins a slow circuit, running his middle finger in between my swollen lips. I watch his hand move within my shorts and try to focus on what he’s doing to me.
    “Now what?” he whispers, his breath ragged against my cheek.
    I slip my hand over his inside my shorts, pressing against his fingers firmly and moving them in a slow circle and then lower, until they rest at my entrance. With a simple push, I show him exactly where I want his fingers—inside me.
    Our hands move in time with each other, and he follows my lead, causing me to writhe against his lap. He responds by shifting his hips to meet my movements. My head is thrown back against his shoulder, and my eyes are shut, just feeling him. I need the complete experience, so I wrench his other hand free from my hip and guide it under my shirt, telling him silently where to go—how to knead and squeeze roughly until I’m moaning.
    “You’re gonna make me come if you don’t stop moving in my lap like that.”
    “You started it.”
    My hand is slick and warm on his, and in a moment of bravado, I yank it free from my shorts and shift my hips upward to snake it around and inside his pants.
    “Slow down,” he whispers, pushing me off his lap so that I have to let him go. I’m turned once more to face him, and I straddle his legs, my forehead against his while I try to breathe.
    His hands are on my knees, up my thighs, squeezing and kneading,