Beautiful Beginning
Page 5
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
My mouth opened and closed a couple of times without any words escaping. With a knowing smirk, Bennett turned back to his sandwich preparation.
He hadn’t bothered to put a shirt on, and his bare torso seemed to go on for miles. His skin was smooth and even, tan from running shirtless in the spring sunshine. The muscles in his arms popped and tensed as he opened the jar of mustard, pulled at the silverware drawer to retrieve a knife, opened the bag of bread. Such simple tasks, but watching him do it felt like the dirtiest and best p**n . I loved his forearms, loved the dark hair, the tan skin, the carve of muscles.
God, what an ass**le.
I watched his tongue slip out and wet his lips. His hair was a mess and fell heavily over his forehead. When I let my eyes slide down the length of his body, I saw the one reaction he couldn’t hide. He was still so hard his c**k pressed against the low-slung waistband of his boxers.
Sweet Jesus.
I opened my mouth one more time and, without looking at me, he bent slightly to the side so his ear moved closer to my lips. A shaky exhale escaped and I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Bennett . . . ?”
“What’s that you say?” he asked. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
Swallowing, I whispered, “Please.”
“Please what?”
Please, Bennett, go f**k yourself was there, on the tip of my tongue. But who was I kidding? I wanted him to f**k me. So, I took a deep breath and admitted, “Please, Bennett, I need it.”
The crash came before I fully registered what happened: with a single sweep of his arm, Bennett had cleared the kitchen island and everything he’d taken from the fridge clattered to the floor. Glass shattered and the knife skittered across the tile and crashed into the baseboard. Bennett crushed me against him, bending to cover my mouth, force his tongue inside, and give me the satisfaction of hearing his deep, relieved groan.
It wasn’t playful anymore, it wasn’t gentle or careful. It was his arms hauling me onto the island, hands pushing me backward to lie flat on the cold marble, and hold me there with one flattened palm pressed heavily to my sternum. It was his other hand spreading my legs wide, his impatient fist pulling at his boxers. And before I could say how much I wanted it, how sorry I was for teasing—because I was, and something about seeing him so wild and primal scared me deliciously—he was easily pushing inside, so deep, and then pulling out just as fast, moving his hips in perfect, punishing stabs.
Releasing the weight of his hand from my chest, he grabbed my legs and took a step closer, pulling them over his shoulders and hitting that spot so deep that I felt the force of him reverberate up my spine. He slid his hands down to my hips, and held me in place while he f**ked, head thrown back, taking his pleasure now. The island was sturdy enough to weather the force of his movements, but I reached over my head, gripping the edge so I could press myself even farther onto him. It wasn’t enough; I needed more, and deeper, and wetter, and rougher. He’d told me I couldn’t have this for days, and he knew better than anyone that his touch was the one thing—the only thing—that could keep me from disintegrating into a hurricane of stress. I needed to get him farther inside me than I ever had before, and I grew obsessed with the idea that I could, somehow.
“God, you’re f**king soaked,” he groaned, opening his eyes to look at me. “How can I keep from taking you? You’ll never know how much I need this.”
“Then why?” I asked. “Why tell me we can’t?”
He bent down, bringing my legs with him so the front of my thighs pressed tightly to my chest. “Because it’s the only time in my life I’ll be able to stop, to slow down, to relish just being near you.” He gulped at the air by my neck and then licked the skin there; his tongue, his teeth, his touch felt like fire. “I want to not be thinking the whole time about where I can take you to be alone for ten minutes, for fifteen, for an hour. I don’t want to resent anyone for keeping us apart, while they’re there to celebrate,” he said, gasping quietly. “I’m obsessed with you, and with this. I want to show you I can be measured.”
“What if that’s not what I want?”
Bennett buried his face in my neck and slowed, but I knew his body well enough to guess that he was just on the cusp of losing it, of reaching that point of no return. He ground against me, found that place, and that rhythm that distracted me from my question and made me chase the feeling building between my legs.
I was trapped beneath him and he began to focus on my pleasure, pushing into me and against me, getting me there until I was clutching at his shoulders, digging my nails into him and meeting his thrusts from below. My back was sore and the countertop was stony and cold on my spine but the increasing urgency of his movements made me not care. I could be bruised from it, and it didn’t matter. I didn’t want anything else but to fall apart with him inside and for him to fall with me.
He hadn’t bothered to put a shirt on, and his bare torso seemed to go on for miles. His skin was smooth and even, tan from running shirtless in the spring sunshine. The muscles in his arms popped and tensed as he opened the jar of mustard, pulled at the silverware drawer to retrieve a knife, opened the bag of bread. Such simple tasks, but watching him do it felt like the dirtiest and best p**n . I loved his forearms, loved the dark hair, the tan skin, the carve of muscles.
God, what an ass**le.
I watched his tongue slip out and wet his lips. His hair was a mess and fell heavily over his forehead. When I let my eyes slide down the length of his body, I saw the one reaction he couldn’t hide. He was still so hard his c**k pressed against the low-slung waistband of his boxers.
Sweet Jesus.
I opened my mouth one more time and, without looking at me, he bent slightly to the side so his ear moved closer to my lips. A shaky exhale escaped and I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Bennett . . . ?”
“What’s that you say?” he asked. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
Swallowing, I whispered, “Please.”
“Please what?”
Please, Bennett, go f**k yourself was there, on the tip of my tongue. But who was I kidding? I wanted him to f**k me. So, I took a deep breath and admitted, “Please, Bennett, I need it.”
The crash came before I fully registered what happened: with a single sweep of his arm, Bennett had cleared the kitchen island and everything he’d taken from the fridge clattered to the floor. Glass shattered and the knife skittered across the tile and crashed into the baseboard. Bennett crushed me against him, bending to cover my mouth, force his tongue inside, and give me the satisfaction of hearing his deep, relieved groan.
It wasn’t playful anymore, it wasn’t gentle or careful. It was his arms hauling me onto the island, hands pushing me backward to lie flat on the cold marble, and hold me there with one flattened palm pressed heavily to my sternum. It was his other hand spreading my legs wide, his impatient fist pulling at his boxers. And before I could say how much I wanted it, how sorry I was for teasing—because I was, and something about seeing him so wild and primal scared me deliciously—he was easily pushing inside, so deep, and then pulling out just as fast, moving his hips in perfect, punishing stabs.
Releasing the weight of his hand from my chest, he grabbed my legs and took a step closer, pulling them over his shoulders and hitting that spot so deep that I felt the force of him reverberate up my spine. He slid his hands down to my hips, and held me in place while he f**ked, head thrown back, taking his pleasure now. The island was sturdy enough to weather the force of his movements, but I reached over my head, gripping the edge so I could press myself even farther onto him. It wasn’t enough; I needed more, and deeper, and wetter, and rougher. He’d told me I couldn’t have this for days, and he knew better than anyone that his touch was the one thing—the only thing—that could keep me from disintegrating into a hurricane of stress. I needed to get him farther inside me than I ever had before, and I grew obsessed with the idea that I could, somehow.
“God, you’re f**king soaked,” he groaned, opening his eyes to look at me. “How can I keep from taking you? You’ll never know how much I need this.”
“Then why?” I asked. “Why tell me we can’t?”
He bent down, bringing my legs with him so the front of my thighs pressed tightly to my chest. “Because it’s the only time in my life I’ll be able to stop, to slow down, to relish just being near you.” He gulped at the air by my neck and then licked the skin there; his tongue, his teeth, his touch felt like fire. “I want to not be thinking the whole time about where I can take you to be alone for ten minutes, for fifteen, for an hour. I don’t want to resent anyone for keeping us apart, while they’re there to celebrate,” he said, gasping quietly. “I’m obsessed with you, and with this. I want to show you I can be measured.”
“What if that’s not what I want?”
Bennett buried his face in my neck and slowed, but I knew his body well enough to guess that he was just on the cusp of losing it, of reaching that point of no return. He ground against me, found that place, and that rhythm that distracted me from my question and made me chase the feeling building between my legs.
I was trapped beneath him and he began to focus on my pleasure, pushing into me and against me, getting me there until I was clutching at his shoulders, digging my nails into him and meeting his thrusts from below. My back was sore and the countertop was stony and cold on my spine but the increasing urgency of his movements made me not care. I could be bruised from it, and it didn’t matter. I didn’t want anything else but to fall apart with him inside and for him to fall with me.
