Trashed / Page 29

Page 29


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I’m naked with Adam Trenton.

He’s still, watching me, and only his eyes move, flicking from side to side, then down to my breasts and between my thighs, and back up.

My gaze is locked on his cock. Holy hell is he big. Tall, thick, and straight, standing erect, pointing away from his body ever so slightly. My pulse is crashing thunder in my ears, my hands trembling ever so slightly. Or maybe a lot. Adam seems totally at ease, one hand tucked behind his head, the other resting with proprietary familiarity on my thigh.

The fingertips of my right hand trail down the slight dusting of dark hair on his chest and stomach, but I chicken out and skirt his crotch, dragging my fingers down his thigh. His posture is loose and relaxed and confident but, jerking my gaze from his impressive erection to his eyes, I notice that his expression is as shuttered as mine is, as if he’s feeling a weltering wealth of emotion and has as many walls up as I do. Maybe I’m reading too much into his blank expression, but I don’t think I am. I summon my courage and draw on my desire, bring my hand back up his opposite thigh, to his stomach. He tenses, sucks in his stomach as my hand nears his erection. His eyes narrow, his nostrils flare. The hand tucked under his head clenches into a fist, and the hand on my thigh squeezes, and then relaxes.

Hovering over him briefly, I finally let my palm descend, and the thick, veined, dark organ is in my hand. I close my fingers around him, and he inhales a long, deep breath. I’ve got him in my fist, now, and his flesh is hot and smooth. It’s exactly as hard in my hand as it looked, yet also softer, silkier. Like satin cushioned around a core of steel. I slide my fist down, and the bulbous head emerges from the top of my hand, straining. I touch my thumb to the very top, and find it springy, squishy. A bead of wetness oozes from the tiny hole at the tip, and my thumb smears over it. Adam’s jaw is clenched, his breathing coming in deep, even inhalations. I move my hand up, and then back down, and Adam’s hips lift slightly. He likes this. I mean, duh, I knew—intellectually—that he would like it, but knowing it mentally is not the same as seeing as his reactions, feeling his stomach tense and his thighs contract, and feeling his hips lift into my touch, seeing his eyes go hooded and hot.

I twist my fist around his thickness as I bring my hand down, and then twist again as I bring it slowly back up. The clear fluid beading at his tip is all over my hand now, and smeared all over the thick, soft, broad bulb the head of his cock.

“You’d better stop,” Adam says. “Or this is gonna end real fast.”

He was that close to coming? I didn’t realize it would be that easy. Part of me wants to keep going, wants to make him come. I want to watch that happen, and know that I did it. Maybe I’ll get that chance another time. For now, I let go, and then he’s lifting up, his torso leaving the bed, his mouth finding mine, his tongue thrusting into my mouth, and heat fills me. Energy sluices through me, desire floods me. My hands find his chest, his shoulders, his arms, caressing the great muscles, tracing the contours and indentations.

I’m on my back, somehow, and I don’t mind it. I like his bulk above me, like his mouth on mine, like the warmth billowing from his skin. I like the press of his body on mine. I feel his knee slide across my thigh, press down on the mattress between my legs, and then his other knee does the same, and we’re devouring each other’s mouths, his tongue wrestling against mine, seeking and scouring and I’m giving as good as I’m getting, lost to the kiss. Pressure coils low in my belly, and my hands come alive, scraping over his back and now finally I find the courage to grab his ass, and I find it hard and taut and I like it, like the way it feels in my hands, so I spend time caressing him there, exploring, kneading, down to his thighs and back up to his spine, and then return to palming both cheeks in my hands.

His knees nudge my thighs apart, and my heart crashes in my chest.

It’s happening. It’s going to happen.

And I want it to. I’m going to let it.

Not just let it, but welcome it. I’m going to go into this eyes wide open, knowing that I may never see this man again, but I’ll have this with him. There’s still fear boiling deep down, but it’s buried and subsumed and weakened. Adam’s gentleness and patience and his obvious attraction to me, his compliments, his reassurance, his understanding of my reticence to answer questions, all of this has weakened the hold of fear, has undercut the hold of the past on me.

Now, I’m alive, and I’m ravenous for Adam, I’m buzzing with energy, my skin tingling with the feel of his against mine.

I feel his cock against my inner thigh, and his mouth leaves mine. This is it.

I look up at him. And instead of pushing into me, he moves back. “Touch yourself, Des.”

“Wh-what?”

“I’ll be right back,” he says, slipping backward off the bed. “Now let me see you touch yourself.”

“Why? Where are you going?” I’m losing my heat, the pressure, the need. Fear is bubbling back up. Where is he going, why is he leaving, why does he—?

He’s back on the bed and his hands are on mine, and he’s pushing my fingers between my thighs, and I feel a zing of electricity as our joined hands find my core, and then our fingers circle my clit and I gasp, and his fingers move into my opening, and I moan, and I push my fingers inside me beside his, heat billowing and pressure clenching and clamping and spreading, and I close my eyes and my head falls back to the pillow. I barely notice him leave the bed, focused on the building crescendo, and then I hear a crinkling of plastic. My eyes flick open to see him ripping open a condom, rolling it over himself.

My eyes go wide with apprehension now, as I see once again exactly how fucking massive his cock is, and I wonder if this is going to hurt. I’ve always heard it does the first time. I’m not afraid of a little pain, but I’m worried I’ll give away the fact of my virginity.

I have absolutely no intention of telling him I’m a virgin. None. He doesn’t need to know. He only has this one weekend here, and then he’s going back to Hollywood to make his movies and I’ll just be a memory. That’s fine. I know what I’m getting myself into. I don’t want this to be a big deal. It’s long past due, and he doesn’t need to know, and there’s no way I can explain it all to him.

He’s watching me, and I wonder momentarily if he can read my mind, if he can see my thoughts somehow, because he’s watching me and his eyes are so sharp, so intelligent, so perceptive, seeing so deeply into me that surely he can perceive the source of my nerves. He’s kneeling between my thighs. I’m no longer touching myself, lost in my thoughts, in my inner discourse.


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