Page 49 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
GETTY
Something jolts me awake with a start. The shadowed figure standing over my bed startles every part of me—breath, heart, imagination. And for that split second before he says my name, fear takes hold that Ethan has come for me.
“Getty.”
“Zander?” My voice is drugged with sleep, mind racing with what he’s doing in here as he lowers down to sit on the edge of the bed. I’d started to relax at the sound of his voice, but now every intangible part of me stands at attention.
And before I can comprehend much more—why he’s here, why my stomach is somersaulting into my chest, why chills are racing over my body—he leans forward without another word and kisses me.
Soft at first. A brush of lips. A tug on my bottom lip. A hand brushing my hair off my face as he leans back to look at me through the moonlit room. And I know before he speaks what he’s going to say.
“I want you, Getty.”
“Yes.” It’s the only answer I can give. The only consent needed, because his mouth is back on mine before I can inhale my next breath. And while this next kiss is still tender, there’s a tinge of hunger to it that’s new and surprising to me.
I relax into the mattress, too many things happening at once to process them all. His hand running down the side of my rib cage. His other hand on the side of my neck, thumb hooked under my ear. The increasing demand in his kiss. The groan of desperation from his throat. His hand on my waist sliding under the hem of my T-shirt. A chilled hand on warm skin slowly sliding up. My soft gasp as he finds my breast. The arch of my neck. His fingers caressing. Tongue possessing. My sensations overwhelmed.
The match being lit.
I’m inundated. Lost to his touch and the skill of his mouth and the incredible way he makes me feel.
The stubble of the day’s growth scrapes down the column of my neck, his lips lacing open-mouth kisses to soothe its sting. But I like the sting. Like knowing I’m alive and this is really happening. Then he cups my breasts with both hands, his mouth taking over their seduction in a kind of finesse I’ve never experienced. His warm lips and heated tongue suck and tease the tight bud of my nipple while his strong hands hold them in place.
The combination of sensations causes a blistering ache in the delta of my thighs. One that hurts so good.
“Fuck, Getty,” he murmurs against my breast as one hand runs down to my hip, fingers kneading the flesh there as I thread mine in his hair and moan in response to the bliss he’s creating.
Fingers feathering over the tops of my thighs. They tug my waistband. Skim across the top of my sex. Fingertips tickling right at the top of my seam, a subtle request for access. And I’m so lost to experiencing this with him—the hushed murmurs of desire and the touches laced with intent—that all I can think about is how much more I want of the way he’s making me feel.
His fingers dance over my most intimate of flesh as his mouth finds mine again. This time his kiss feels more demanding, hungrier, and it’s my only focus until his fingertips slowly part me and brush gently over my clit. My gasp of pleasure is swallowed by his kiss, the sudden tensing of my leg muscles his gauge of my definite responsiveness.
And my God . . . going from having no one touch me but my own hand to being treated with such reverence—soft and desirous and attentive—is like creating a spark in a room full of propane. Explosive. Fiery. Unrelenting.
His touch rocks me. It doesn’t take much. Between the generosity in how he caresses me and the greed in his kiss, seconds tumble into one another as every part of my body burns bright and fast toward climax.
My hands on his shoulders. Fingernails into steeled flesh. Breath robbed. Head digging back in the pillow. Back arched. Hips bucking. Zander catapults me into the oblivious free fall of my orgasm.
“Zander.” I cry out his name in a plea for him to keep going. A plea for him to stop for a second. And I can’t decide which I want more as his fingers softly milk the last of the vibrations for me.
“Getty.”
“Not yet.”
“Getty!” More insistent. Hands suddenly on my shoulders, shaking me. My mind shocked to the present.
To the dark room around me. Zander standing over me, my fingers slick between my thighs. I freeze, trying to grasp dream from reality.
“You were having a nightmare. Called out my name. Were thrashing around,” he says as he sits down beside me.
And if there were any way he could see my eyes and the mask of mortification that must be blanketing my face, he’d know the truth. That my dream was the furthest thing from a nightmare. But thank goodness for the moonless sky and darkened room. Or else he’d know that I’d just gotten off dreaming about him. That there was a damp patch in my panties from fantasy sex with him.
“I’m okay,” I stutter breathlessly as I slowly withdraw my hand out from beneath the drawstring of my pants so he doesn’t notice the movemen
t. I push myself up, my body coated in a light mist of sweat, my muscles still contracting from the remnants of my orgasm.
My self-indulged one, it seems.
Could this get any worse? Having the man you’re fantasizing is giving you an orgasm be the one to catch you in the act, so to speak?
