Page 18 of The Virgin Game Plan (Rules of Love 2)
This is everything I imagined. This is more than I imagined.
His hands curl possessively around my hips, gripping me. He runs his nose along my mound, then breathes out. “God, you taste so good. And you smell so fucking incredible,” he says, then kisses me.
Right there.
Where I want him.
Groaning savagely as he licks my wetness, Holden flicks his tongue up and down my center, then sucks on the hard nub of my clit, driving me wild.
Gah.
My brain is fried. My thoughts are toast.
I just can’t.
I can’t do anything but give in, let go, and move my body in tandem with his mouth, his noises, his hands.
My legs fall open, and my hands fly to my head, like that’s how I’m going to hold on to earth as he sends me soaring into the stratosphere.
I arch. I writhe.
Panting loudly, I cry out as I rock my hips against his face, shoving my hands deeper into my hair, holding on for dear life.
I can barely withstand the onslaught of pleasure.
“I’ve never . . .” I moan, but it’s barely audible.
I can’t form words.
I can’t—physically can’t—tell him I’ve never come with another person before.
Assembling syllables in an order that makes sense is impossible given the way he’s undoing me, how he’s taking me apart, lick by lick, kiss by kiss, flick by flick.
I had no idea this was possible.
This man devours me, kissing me like I’m the reason he woke up today.
Like I’m the reward at the end of every day.
My hands, my fingers, the things I do to myself at night are nothing compared to what he’s doing to me now.
The softness of his tongue, the caress of his lips, and the moans that fall from his mouth. The murmurs, the my Gods, and the deep, filthy masculine rumbles.
I’m his breakfast, his lunch, his dinner, and his dessert.
Hell, I’m his late-night snack right now, and he’s ravenous. I gaze down at the fantastic image between my legs, the sight in front of me.
His broad shoulders, his strong arms, that thick mess of hair.
This gorgeous man between my legs, kissing my pussy, worshipping my body, as he wraps those major league arms around my thighs, tugging me closer to his mouth, impossibly closer.
Bliss spins in me, adrenaline tripping through my veins.
My hands slide down my body, roaming over my breasts, my belly, then finding his hair once again. I thread my fingers through those locks, curling my hands over his head. “Is this okay?” I whisper.
He moans against me, lifting his face for a second, murmuring, “Yeah, do that. Grab me. Tug me against you. Fucking use me.”
Pleasure bursts inside me, a promise of what’s to come, a hint of what’s just over the horizon as he continues his relentless quest for my orgasm.
I can feel it, just out of reach, hovering on the other side. I want it desperately. I want everything with him.
He moans against my wetness, and I cry out as he takes me higher, pushes further, gives more.
His mouth is a one-man band, his tongue an instrument of pleasure, his lips making music as he plays me. Ecstasy throbs inside of me with every sweep of his tongue, every kiss of his lips, and every grip of his fingers into my hips.
“Oh God, I’m close, so close.”
And then I’m there.
I’m breaking apart, falling into pieces, coming undone in a constellation of pleasure, like starlight, like a supernova.
My cries are endless.
My orgasm ravages me.
My body quakes.
Aftershocks radiate inside me, pulses of lingering bliss, the remnants of the most fantastic climax in the universe.
Like the fading notes of a song, they spread to the tips of my fingers, to the ends of my hair.
Holden moves over me, bracing himself on strong arms, that tattoo on display. The stylized tree design is so artfully drawn, and I’m dying to know what it means to him.
But there are other topics to tackle first.
Especially since this night isn’t ending. It’s only beginning, and I want the rest of it. All of it.
He stares down at me with need flickering in his irises. He’s such a sight. His green eyes blaze with desire. His lips are hungry.
And the best part? The sexiest part is this—his hard cock pushing against my thigh.
A visceral reminder that I want him inside me.
That I need to tell him that he’ll be my first.
I lift my arms, my hands holding his face, where his jaw is still wet.
With me.
A tremble rushes through me. “Holden,” I begin, sounding all breathy and blissed out.
He shakes his head—in amazement, I think. “Reese, you’re incredible. Absolutely incredible. You’re so responsive.”
“Because of how you touch me. I think you’ve reduced me to a very primal level. I could barely speak.”
“Good. Speaking is overrated when there’s touch,” he says ironically, because the man loves to talk even as he touches me.
