Page 52 of Falling

Booker gasped—another sound I wanted more of—as I reached for his jeans, fumbling with the button, breaking the kiss to pant for breath and look at what I was doing because I barely knew how to operate a jean fly on myself, let alone another person. I hadn’t owned jeans in a decade.

Booker hissed as I got his fly open. I was planning to make notes about all of this later, when there was more blood in my brain and I had a pen handy. What made him gasp, what made him sigh, what other reactions I could get from him. I wanted a record of all of it so I’d know what I was doing again and again.

I ran the tip of my finger along the length of his cock through his underwear and his head fell back like I’d flicked a switch.

“Thought you hadn’t done this before?” he rasped, rough and perfect. I hadn’t imagined he could somehow get sexier, but I was starting to get why Ryan had loved having Warren at his mercy so much.

“Research librarian,” I said, bending forward to catch his mouth again, swallowing a throaty groan as I palmed Booker and he melted into the couch cushions like I’d turned him into a liquid.

Yeah. I was really getting the appeal of turning a big, safe, reliable man into a puddle of want.

I nearly melted, too, as I shoved his underwear out of the way and got my hands on warm skin. Booker gasped into my mouth as I pinned him to the couch and curled my fingers around him. He felt huge in my hands and I wanted to look, but I also didn’t want to stop kissing him. I wanted all of this and more, everything I could get, but I didn’t want to move. Not now, maybe not ever. Maybe I’d just live out the rest of my life in Booker’s lap, making him feel like this.

Booker’s hands felt so good on my skin, gentle again now but still searingly hot, grounding me as I forced myself to look down between us, watching my own hand move up and down the length of his cock, precome beading at the tip, rolling down the length. I was doing that. Booker was hard and leaking and so obviously turned on and enjoying this, and it was all me.

I wanted him to come for me. There was nothing I wanted more in the whole world, right now, than to feel Booker come in my hand.

“Will you come for me?” I asked aloud. I’d meant it to sound like a confident command, like Ryan had sounded when he asked Warren to come for him, but it’d come out hopeful and pleading.

Booker didn’t seem to mind, already nodding, fingers tightening on my butt as his head fell back again, chest heaving with every breath.

I remembered something else I’d read and leaned forward to follow him, tilting my head to press a kiss to the base of his throat, just barely scraping my teeth against the sensitive skin there.

All at once, Booker jerked up into my hand, a sharp gasp punched out of him, and I got what I’d asked for. A hot rush of fluid spilling over my fingers, Booker’s throat vibrating against my lips as he groaned, low and long, rocking his hips as he rode out his orgasm.

That had probably not been the most skillful handjob ever performed, but Booker made me feel like an expert.

A moment later there was a hand in my hair, Booker dragging me up for a messy, needy kiss. Then his fingers brushed against the front of my pants and I saw stars.

I hadn’t been paying attention to my own body, too focused on Booker and everything I was learning about him and myself. Turned out I was also painfully turned on by watching him, so much that the slightest pressure was agony.

I whimpered into his mouth, hips jerking into his hand as he stroked me again, firmer this time, more pleasure than pain. He shushed me, so gentle and caring like he was in everything else, even as he fumbled with my fly.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against my chin as I rested my forehead against his, head spinning and overwhelmed. “You’re okay.”

I sobbed as he got his hands into my pants, broad palm cupping me from root to tip. His hand was so big and so warm, so confident, touching me like he wanted to touch me, like this was fun for him. No one else had ever touched me like this.

My fingers tightened in the collar of his shirt hard enough to cramp. It was almost impossible to breathe, to do anything other than feel the hot rush of pleasure rolling through me, overwhelmed tears stinging at my eyes as I ground down against Booker’s hand.

Three strokes, four, five. My vision whited out, my back arched, and I was pretty sure I more or less screamed before the rush of my orgasm deafened me and I came in my underwear like an overeager teenager, gasping my way through it.

Booker kept his hands on me, gentle strokes easing me through it. Easing me back down until the last ripples of pleasure faded away and I could start to catch my breath.

I collapsed against him, resting my head on his shoulder and letting him take my full weight, tears soaking into his shirt.

This. This was what I’d been missing.

“Wasn’t that bad, was it?” Booker murmured after a minute.

I shook my head, going with him as he eased me back to look me in the eyes.

“Why the tears?” Booker frowned, brushing one away with the tip of his thumb, stroking my cheek. “Something wrong?”

I half-laughed, half-sobbed. He was so perfect. How had I managed to find him? How had no one else gotten there first?

“Nothing wrong,” I said. “It’s just… it’s a lot.”

Booker nodded, then wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into a hug. He held me close to his chest and let me settle against him again, a few more tears soaking into the collar of his shirt while I recovered.