Page 26 of Hexed Up

Not that he’s currently kissing my mouth – his lips are currently caressing my throat – which is technically still kissing so the rules have not been broken.

The temperature in my flat has risen steadily and I’m not sure it’s simply because of the weather outside. I bet the windows are all steamed up. We’re both a lot more dishevelled than we were two hours ago and a little more sweaty.

Not that Mr Hottie seems to mind.

He drags his tongue up my throat and hums.

“Hmmm, you’re all sweaty.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah,” he says, “good enough to eat.” His eyes twinkle and I shift on his lap. And good as this position may be, it’s also pretty frustrating. Something solid, hard, and impossibly big is positioned right underneath me and the temptation to rub myself against it for a bit of friction and a bit of relief is frankly unbearable.

I suspect it’s something he’s more than aware of too, given the pained expression on his face when I shift.

However, dry humping would definitely cross the line.

To distract myself from the temptation, I lean down and copy his last move, slurping my own tongue against his thick neck; a neck corded with muscle. He’s right, the taste is salty and the texture rough. His hands clasp more tightly around my waistand I can’t help but clamp my lips to his neck and suck. I haven’t given a boy a hickey since I was sixteen but maybe all the kissing and the pent-up frustration has sent me feral, because I really want to mark his skin.

“Shit,” he groans, “you little minx.”

His head tips backward, his eyelids flutter shut and his hips shift upward, thrusting that object in his trousers right against my core.

I whimper against his neck because the contact sends actual stars crashing across my vision.

I pull away, biting down hard on my lip, trying to regain my senses, not realising I’ve screwed up my eyes until I open them again. When I do, I’m faced with his penetrating stare, about ten shades darker than it was.

He’s panting and I may be doing the same.

It’s hot. It smells like sex (even though there’s been none). And he looks so hot I may die.

My resolve snaps at exactly the same time as his does. Our mouths collide, his hands grip my arse, as mine take hold of his shoulders, and then I’m grinding against him desperately and he pushes up against me, manoeuvring me against that very hard, very large object in his trousers.

“Oh shit, Molly,” he mutters, sounding so undone it might be enough to tip me right into an orgasm.

As it is, I’m so worked up, it takes very little friction to have me falling right over the edge. Bucking and jolting on his lap as he continues to grind me against him. More stars crash across my vision as ecstasy pours from my core right along every limb to the tips of my scrunched-up toes and rigid fingers.

I cry out, everything between my legs convulsing in waves and heat rushing up my neck and into my cheeks.

It’s the best orgasm I’ve had in a very long time and we still have our clothes on.

When my vision and my senses return and I can focus back on his face, I find him studying me intently, his jaw tight, his neck corded and the veins in his forehead throbbing.

He bounces me on his lap and then he’s burying his face in my cleavage. He grunts; the object beneath me throbs. Then there’s a flood of wetness, his body relaxes and he lets out one long strangled moan.

I don’t know the man that well, but I’m going to take it his own orgasm wasn’t half bad as well.

He flops back against the couch, taking me with him, nuzzling his face between my boobs.

I think we may definitely have overstepped the mark. Right now, in my post-orgasmic haze, I’m not sure I care. That’s three-weeks’-time’s Molly’s problem. That’s locked-up-forever-in-jail Molly’s problem.

“That was …” he murmurs.

“Hmmmm,” I agree, loving the rough feel of his stubble against my sensitive breasts a little too much.

He places a gentle kiss between my boobs, then tips his head back to look at me again.

“You’re really sexy when you come.”