Free Adrian Lessons by L.A Rose Page A

pleasant of all the things I’ve ever done.”
    “I’ll take that,” I say quietly, covering her mouth again. I slide my tongue over hers, my hand dipping into the small of her back, and she gasps.
    I’ve kissed so many girls.
    At this moment, I know that I never want to kiss any girl but Cleo again.      
    “Describe it,” I tell her. “Talk about it like you’re writing. Maybe that will help.”
    I lightly bite her lower lip and then let her speak. Her skin is flushed and the reflection of the water shines in her eyes.
    There’s something about growing up that means understanding clichés. Life isn’t fair, etc.—lines you hear all the time as a kid but never get , until that one moment when you understand why they’re embedded in the lexicon of humanity. So I hope you can forgive me if I tell you that she takes my breath away.
    It’s like being socked in the chest.
    Because fantasy isn’t even on the same playing field as reality.
    “My lips burn from his kiss, but not unpleasantly,” she says. The line connecting our eyes is so powerful you could hang clothes out to dry on it. “Like how it feels after you drink really expensive whiskey…a liquid burn. God, I don’t know what I’m saying.” Her voice falls to a whisper. “Isn’t this embarrassing you?”
    “Embarrassed?” I give a low chuckle. “Embarrassed isn’t anywhere near the range of things I’m feeling right now, Clee.”
    This time, she doesn’t protest the nickname.
    “This is important. This is your job.” I trace a piece of hair back from her forehead before leaning close to her ear. “And I want to hear you describe this.”
    She groans, just barely. I let my hand dip low, my fingers sliding over the fabric of her jeans to caress her thigh.
    “He touches me like a violin master touches his favorite instrument,” she says, and she blushes again at the sound of her own voice. Her words are surprisingly beautiful. I cup her chin with my other hand.
    “Keep talking,” I order her. “Tell me about this.”
    And I slide my hand up her thigh until I’m cupping her, feeling the heat of her below the fabric, imagining the skin.
    “He touches me…” Her voice fades and comes back stronger as I slide my fingers hard against her. “He touches me right where I want him to.”
    Those words springing confidently from her lips gets me hard as diamond. My whole body is taut with desire, every muscle below my abdomen straining. Hearing her describe what I’m doing to her is unbelievably sexy.
    “Even under my clothes, I respond to him. I’m wet, and not just from the fountain.”
    I feel her mouth curve into a smile against me, as the fabric beneath my fingers dampens. I deserve the national willpower award for not sliding her pants down over her hips, pressing my face to her, and breathing in her scent.
    “I want him.” Her voice burns. Her pretty language is deserting her now, leaving her with only straightforward words. “He’s hard against me, and I imagine what it would feel like to take him in my hands, in my mouth, take him everywhere…”
    Jesus Christ Almighty.
    Suddenly I hate with a burning passion the person who invented clothes.
    Sadistic motherfucker.
    “I can feel how large he is, even through the fabric of his pants.” And then her small hand is exploring, tentatively at first, before gripping me. I groan. I’ve never come in my pants before, but for the first time, it’s an actual danger.
    Her voice is so silky, so sexy.
    “I want to taste him,” she murmurs, almost to herself, and it breaks me.
    I kiss her ferociously, keeping one hand on her back and one between her legs, pressing against the hot, wet fabric, exploring the place where I know her clit is hidden. She jolts against my body and suddenly there’s moisture all around us, pouring down. We’ve backed into the fountain.
    “I think I’ve gotten you about as wet as possible,” I say into her mouth, and she makes a noise somewhere