Page 66 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“It’s about letting yourself go because you trust the other person to take you there.”
His breath begins to labor against my cheek as his hand moves faster. The one rubbing against my clit. A pleasurable heat begins
to burn hotter within me. Sears my core. Robs my inhibitions. Ignites my libido. Pushes me over the edge.
My hands hold on to his shoulders. Fingernails score into his flesh. My legs tense against his knees between my thighs. His name falls from my mouth. His teeth nip that sensitive curve between my neck and shoulder as my muscles pulse around his fingers.
“Let go, Getty,” he encourages, voice thick with desire.
I struggle for coherency as that white-hot rush of heat flashes through me. The release is all I can focus on. I think he says my name. Encourages me as his fingers milk my orgasm without giving me any reprieve to gain some sense. And I think that’s what he wants, because his soft chuckle vibrates against my chest, where his lips are still kissing softly.
With my body floating high on the orgasmic haze, he allows me only a second to catch my breath before he withdraws his fingers from within me. My soft moan of protest is smothered as his mouth meets mine again in a kiss chock-full of desperate desire. It’s like I’m trying to come up for air and he’s trying to pass me his.
“Goddamn,” he murmurs against my lips. His hands roam and mouth claims. The urgency between us increases and I want the greediness I can sense in his touch. So I welcome the telltale rip of foil after I hear the nightstand open as his pushes himself back onto his knees and protects himself.
He takes my legs in his hands and pulls me closer to him so that the backs of my thighs rest over his hips. I don’t know if I should hate or love the flutter in my belly at the feeling of the crest of his dick positioned at my entrance. If I should give in to the criticism embedded in my psyche over my lack of sexual prowess or let it go and just enjoy the man in front of me.
With his cock in his hand, he rubs up and down the line of my sex, and as much as the anticipation of him entering me makes me want to move things forward, I can’t resist the urge to look up and meet his eyes. And with a slash of moonlight across his face highlighting the slow lick of his tongue over his bottom lip and the unfettered desire burning in his eyes, I know the fluttery feeling is one I’ll hold on to.
“This is mine now, Getty,” he murmurs into the silent room, eyes locked onto mine, and slowly pushes his way into me. Inch by achingly sweet inch. My body burns in the most pleasurable of burns as he fills me in every way possible.
When he’s sheathed root to tip, the muscles in his neck and shoulders visibly demonstrating the restraint he’s holding on to by a thin thread, he leans forward so there is no mistaking what he’s about to say. “Not his.” He grinds his hips in a slow circle that has us both moaning at the litany of sensations he’s creating for both of us. “Mine.” Hands keeping the insides of my thighs apart in a possessive hold, he slowly withdraws so that just the head of his dick is inside me. He wraps one of his hands around his shaft so that he can tease and taunt me before resuming the slow, all-consuming slide back in.
And when he bottoms out, the word he enunciates in a pained groan is the sexiest one I’ve heard from him yet. “Yours.” A grind of hips. “Mine.” Then a shift of my legs upward as he pushes into me as deep as possible. “Ours.”
With our bodies connected, he leans forward on the last word and kisses me softly. And I love that although he’s inside me, he still treats the kiss as if it’s the most intimate of actions between us. When he pulls back, those blue eyes heavy with want meet mine. “Understood?”
“Yes.”
Our lips meet once more before he shifts back up onto his knees and begins to take what I’m offering. My trust. My body. And I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t say a little bit more of my heart.
His hips begin to move faster with each thrust. The crest of his dick keeps perfectly hitting on that hub of nerves within me that I never really knew existed before. It’s a different kind of sensation from when his fingers worked my clit. A pressure that intensifies as he picks up the pace.
Time passes in pure sensations. The bite of his fingers into my thighs. The mist of sweat on my skin. The groan he emits as he slowly comes undone. The tingle of ecstasy throughout my body. Then all the pleasure surges and crashes after his cock slides expertly over the coveted spot within me. Incoherency reins as he swells bigger, harder, and he continues his unforgiving rhythm.
“Getty.”
It’s the broken groan of my name that drags me from the onslaught of sensations he’s created. I focus on him just in time to see him in all his glory: head thrown back, muscles taut, hips thrusting relentlessly as his orgasm shudders through him. I stare at him with a mixture of awe and embarrassment: awe over how incredibly hot he looks and embarrassment that I don’t want to be caught staring.
But I can’t help it. The expression on his face as he lowers his head and looks down at me—satisfaction, desire, exhaustion—is so overwhelming to me because I put those there. Me. Getty Caster.
And I don’t have much more time to think about it before a smug smile slowly curls his magnificent mouth as he leans forward to press a thorough and lingering kiss to my lips, which causes everything to stir once again in my lower belly.
Zander carefully pulls out of me and rises from the bed to clean up. The panicked feeling I expected of What next? doesn’t come. Maybe it’s because I’m almost twenty-six years old and for the first time ever I’ve been properly sexed.
And properly doesn’t even begin to describe what Zander just did to me. I’m exhausted, and exhilarated, and can see why sexual intimacy is so important to a relationship. To cementing the connection between two people. Especially when that person has the skills of Zander Donavan.
Lost in my scattered thoughts, I emit a content sigh when Zander slides back into the bed and pulls my body against him, my back to his front. He presses a kiss to my shoulder and tears unexpectedly sting in my eyes, the emotion of the evening overwhelming me.
“You okay?” he asks, his mouth moving against my skin.
“Yeah.” I nod and slide my hands over his arms, wrapped around my waist. “Yes. Thank you.” Those words aren’t even close to adequate to thank him for the tenderness and sense of security he just gave me. Or the little slice of confidence that Ethan just might be wrong about me.
“You don’t have to thank me,” he laughs. “It’s not like you’re the only one who benefited.” The sleep-drugged sound of his voice tugs on my ego and I let the smile he can’t see spread unabashedly over my lips. “And next time, it’s okay for you to speak up and tell me what you want. What you need. I can handle being told what to do.” He chuckles softly again, the reverberation rumbling against my back.
Don’t talk, Gertrude. Your voice distracts me. Reminds me that it’s you I’m fucking. Next time you talk, you know what happens. . . .
I shove the horrible memory from my thoughts. My ex-husband’s decrees had previously ruled my sexual experience. But I don’t want them to invade this moment with Zander. Ruin this taste of normalcy that I now know I’m entitled to. I will myself to hear the words Zander said instead—next time—and hold on to the knowledge that he wants there to be a next time. That he actually wants there to be more. With me.
