Page 47 of Faking Forever
Kenny hooked her left leg around his tight butt, dragging him closer until there was no room left between them. They were too close to move against each other, the press creating a throbbing sensation instead of friction.
One of her arms was wrapped around his neck, hand buried in his thick, silky hair. The other had burrowed beneath his T-shirt and was stroking the long, taut expanse of his back.
He switched to her other breast, sucking, licking, biting. She loved it. Every sensation arrowed straight down to her clit, which pulsed in sympathy. She was able to rock her pelvis, increasing and decreasing pressure against her clit. And he moaned shakily against her tit as his cock began to jerk in unison to the orgasmic pulsating that was starting up in her clit.
She was nearly there, so close. Her eyes were streaming, her throat dry…
She coughed.
And coughed again.
“Fuck!” Smith swore as he dragged his mouth from her breast.
“Wha—” Kenny coughed once more and belatedly became aware of a very incessant beeping and…
Was that smoke?
Smith wrenched himself away from her. She sat up, completely dazed and bewildered as she watched him leap toward the stove.
He dragged open the oven and grabbed the mitts draped over the handle to drag thecharcoal-blacklasagna from the oven and drop it in the sink.
The room was filled with smoke and the smoke detector stridently blared a warning Kenny hadn’t even noticed until now.
She was still on the table, every nerve ending in her body as scorched as that poor lasagna. She sat up and slid off the table in an ungainly movement.
The Smith’sT-shirt lay forgotten on the floor and she stooped to pick it up and drag it on self-consciously, covering up her nudity as swiftly as possible.
Now that reason was returning, she felt so embarrassed. What the hell had she been thinking?
Smith was resetting the smoke detector. And Kenny wondered if this meant that the fire department would show up soon.
She crossed her arms over her chest, wincing as the soft fabric brushed against her over-sensitized nipples. And that wasn’t the only thing that was overstimulated. She’d need, as discreetly as possible, to change her underwear and shorts.
To that end, she picked up her bag and retreated to the bathroom while Smith was still busy discarding the burnt lasagna.
She rinsed her face with cold water, and braced her hands on the vanity as she glared at her dazed expression, noting the hectic flush of arousal that wouldn’t abate, no matter how much cold water she splashed onto her face and neck. Her nipples were still hard, her clit still throbbing, and she was seriously considering giving herself an orgasm, because she was still so damnedprimed.
She changed into fresh underwear and shorts but even the fabric rubbing against her was too much. The last time she’d beenthisturned on had been the night she’d first met Smith. The urgency, the heightened awareness, the borderline pain in the pleasure they’d given each other, had been unprecedented until now.
And they hadn’t even kissed.
She frowned. The whole thing had been soclinical. Smith knew how to make her come. Knew where to lick and suck and press and touch.
It was as if he’d set out to make her—and himself—climax as quickly as possible. With the least amount of intimacy allowable.
Her overly aroused body finally began to settle down as she contemplated that fact. Hating howusedit made her feel.
She now understood what he’d meant when he told her that the sex between them after her miscarriage had been cold and passionless. How had he put it?
Very fucking unsatisfactory.
Because while, forher, what had just happened had felt hotter than hellfire, Smith had been rushing them both to orgasm with ice-cold efficiency.
Exactly what he’d been doing whenever they’d made love—fucked—in the lastsix months.
Why?
Upon reflection she recognized how cynical his actions had become. It was as if he’d divorced himself from any emotional aspect, and it left her feeling sick to her stomach. And made the whole encounter feelsordidand ugly.
