His hands are hungry, groping, squeezing me, and I turn my head to the side and he takes my lips again, and while he’s kissing me, while we’re tonguing each other, while I’m practically hyperventilating, he’s running his hand slowly south, over my belly, down my thigh, and then up and under my skirt.
I want to stop him. I don’t want to give in to him. But, oh God, I don’t want him to stop. He starts to rub the inside of my thigh, squeeze it in his big and powerful hands, inching ever slightly upward, under my skirt, toward my molten center.
And I know I’m so turned on. I can feel it, the tightness in my belly, the fullness at the juncture of my thighs. I even become aware of the wetness in my underwear, pressing back against me when he suddenly cups my sex.
I gasp, feeling the heat of his palm radiate into my core, and then he’s rubbing me through my underwear, and all I’m doing is pushing my head back into him, arching my back, stretching out like a cat in the sun.
Somehow, I don’t care that we’re on a public beach. Somehow, I’ve been immunized to modesty. My body craves his touch, yearns for completion at his touch, and I’m powerless to prevent my physical urges from taking control of me, from dictating my every reaction.
And so I give in. I let him touch me. I crane my neck to the side so he can kiss me, lick me, take my earlobe into his mouth and suck on it. I hear him smell me, and my hands go unconsciously to his knees, and I’m gripping onto them, feeling hard muscle, and I’m somehow able to see the image of his thighs in my mind, naked, thrusting into me, tensing and flexing as he buries himself deep inside me.
I moan and I writhe and I undulate my body. I’m making noises I’ve never made before, and I’m doing something I’ve never done before, and his fingers are playing me like an instrument, granting me these glimpses at such intense pleasure I know it will make the world melt away around me.
And then he finally stops teasing me. I feel his fingers slip beneath the elastic, and his hot flesh is on mine, right in my center, right in my most private place. There’s this great swell of nervous anticipation in me, and my heart is hammering in my chest, and the roar of blood in my ears drowns out the sounds of the sea and the birds.
It’s just me and him, his breath on my neck, his fingers on my sex, and my moans on the wind.
He pushes a finger inside me and I grip onto his legs even harder. He angles it upward, rubs the front of inside me, and I feel so, so good. He pushes a second finger into me, and I feel myself stretch around him, and he’s still also somehow working my clit, and it’s just all too much.
I’m gripping onto him like it’s for dear life, and he settles into a quick rhythm, and I feel myself climbing higher and higher, getting closer and closer to the edge.
It’s like a big spring is inside me, coiling up, tightening and tightening, just waiting to be sprung. I can feel it in my belly, and I’ve never felt anything like this before. I can’t help but smile as I writhe and as I moan, as he plucks strings of pleasure so deep within me, strings I never knew existed.
“Shit,” I gasp, inching closer and closer to my eventual crisis. “Don’t stop!” I hiss. “Don’t stop!”
My knuckles have gone white from where I’m holding onto him, and my fingers ache.
I cross the line, I tighten up, my body flexes, and ecstasy crashes over me. I suck in air, hold my breath, squeeze around his fingers. I feel pleasure explode inside me, radiate out of me, and I’m in heaven. I’m soaring, in orbit. It’s all I can see… white-hot.
And then I’ve passed the peak, and I’m coming down the other side, and my whole body feels weak, and I’ve never felt so satisfied in my life.
And, distantly, a little voice is screaming at me: You idiot!
Unleashed will be released soon.
Uncaged
An MMA Stepbrother Romance
By
Emilia Kincade
Copyright 2015 by Emilia Kincade, Grace Kincade Publishing
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All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. All characters depicted in this work are adults.
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