Maddy

I remain frozen on the bed, my arms above my head, my eyes wide, my nipples hard, watching Keane’s muscular backside in the dim light as he bends over my computer, the waistband of his sweatpants riding impossibly low on his trim hips.

When “Trip Switch” begins blaring, Keane turns around and stands at the edge of the bed, his chest heaving, his muscles taut.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to start dancing. But he doesn’t move. He just keeps standing at the edge of the bed, commanding my attention with nothing more than his smoldering gaze.

I rise up onto my forearms, my chest heaving in synchronicity with Keane’s, anticipation killing me—but still, Keane does nothing but glower at me like a vampire assessing his next meal.

Finally, mercifully, when the song reaches its first chorus, Keane begins moving his body, his eyes still trained on mine. But this time, unlike the way Keane danced to “Pony” a few moments ago, his movement isn’t flashy. It’s raw. Sensual. Honest. It seems Keane’s not performing to this song—he’s revealing something to me. Something intimate—a secret just for me.

I part my lips, suddenly overcome with desire.

After several understated moves, Keane bends down and peels off his sweatpants, his eyes still locked with mine, and when he straightens back up in nothing but grey boxer-briefs, my breath catches.

“Wow,” I whisper.

But Keane’s got his game face on. He crawls onto the bed like a panther and, starting at my bare feet, his body gyrating subtly to the beat of the music, he slithers up the length of my pajama bottoms, skimming his nose and mouth up my shins and knees and inner thighs. When his face arrives at my crotch, he pauses ever so briefly right above my aching clit.

I widen my legs at the sensation of his warm breath on my bull’s-eye, but even as I do it, he’s on the move again, his nose and lips skimming up the length of my torso toward my breasts.

Keane’s face nuzzles briefly into my cleavage and then skims over to my hard left nipple jutting up from underneath my tank top. He hovers over the erect bud for a long beat, his labored breathing warming the fabric over my breast, until, without warning, he nips at the outline of my nipple, making me moan softly in shock and arousal.

Keane looks up from my chest, his eyes blazing, perhaps looking to gauge if I’m comfortable with the new direction of this lap dance, and I nod, encouraging him. He smiles wickedly and, without hesitation, lowers his head and buries his face in the fabric-covered valley between my breasts again, this time with ferocious enthusiasm. I run my fingers through Keane’s hair as he makes my breasts jiggle and my nipples harden to steel.

But, quickly, Keane’s face is on the move again. He lays soft kisses on my collarbone and up my neck as his hand fondles my breast from the outside of my shirt.

I arch my back, moaning with pleasure, my body on fire. Every fiber of my body wants to reach out and grope Keane the way he’s doing to me, but I’m not certain about the rules of this “lap dance.” Keane’s clearly told me the pickles are never allowed to touch him when he performs . . . and I’m honestly not sure if I’m a pickle right now or if I’m just . . . me.

I’ve no sooner wondered about the nature of this “lap dance” than Keane covers my body with his, presses himself into me, and grinds a massive hard-on straight into my crotch.

I let out a soft moan, relieved and excited to discover Keane’s as turned on as I am. I throw my arms around his back and hike my legs around his gyrating hips and grind myself into him feverishly. “Keane,” I whisper, excitement surging inside me.

“Touch me, Maddy,” Keane whispers into my ear, his hips coaxing mine into sensual movement to match his, his hands exploring my breasts. I slide my fingertips down Keane’s muscled lower back, over the waistband of his briefs, and caress and squeeze his hard ass from outside his underwear as he gyrates deliciously on top of me. Oh my God, this feels incredible.

In response to my grip on his gyrating ass, Keane slides his hand under my tank top and caresses my naked breast, sending electricity shooting through my entire body. “You’re sexy as hell,” Keane whispers, his fingers pinching my nipple. “I gotta see ‘em,” he says. “I’m dying to see ‘em.”

“They’re all yours,” I whisper.

Keane deftly repositions himself until he’s straddling me, his knees resting on either side of my hips, his erection poking monstrously from behind his gray briefs. He takes a deep, shaky breath and slowly lifts my tank top to my neck, his palms brushing against my naked skin as he lifts the fabric. “Gorgeous,” he breathes. “They’re perfect.” Without hesitation, he leans over me and swirls his tongue around my rock-hard nipple.

When Keane’s mouth moves to my other breast, I slide my fingers straight down his back, burrow them underneath the waistband of his briefs, and grope every square inch of his bare ass.

At the touch of my greedy fingers on his flesh, Keane shudders on top of me with obvious arousal. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he breathes. “Oh, shit.” He slides off me, taking his ass away from my reach, and stretches his body next to mine on the mattress, and, before I can pout about him pulling his bare ass out of my reach, he reaches between my legs and begins massaging my clit from the outside of my pajama pants.

At his confident touch on the most sensitive spot of my body, I arch my back and widen my legs and literally growl with pleasure.

“Does that feel good?” Keane whispers, his fingertips stroking me fervently, his steely hard-on grinding into my thigh.

“So good,” I gasp, jerking underneath his hand.

I reach over and stroke the bulge straining behind his briefs, and he lets out a loud groan at my touch. Oh, God, I’m dying to slide my fingers inside his briefs, or, hell, to slide those damned underwear right off and see Keane’s naked body in its full, erect, breathtaking glory, but I refrain. Keane’s not slipping his fingertips inside my underwear, after all, so I suppose I’ll follow his lead.

“Trip Switch” ends and the next song cued up on YouTube automatically begins playing. It’s a song I don’t recognize, though I can tell it’s also by Nothing But Thieves, and, holy hell, it’s a sexy freakin’ song. I begin stroking Keane’s fabric-covered hard-on more fervently, aching to give him pleasure the way he’s doing for me.

After a moment, Keane lets out a guttural groan and his entire body shudders. “Stop,” Keane blurts. “You gotta stop that. I’m too turned on. I can’t . . . You gotta stop.”

I stop touching him, though it pains me to do it, and place my hands by my sides.

“What the fuck are you doing to me?” Keane whispers, his fingers working me into a state of delirium. “Oh, fuck, I really shouldn’t be doing this.” He presses his hard-on urgently into me, his extreme arousal evident. “What am I doing?”

“Keane,” I murmur. “I’m so close.” I beat my fists against the mattress like a wild woman and let out a strange noise. My body is tightening and coiling sharply from deep inside, on the very cusp of releasing.

“I’m fucking up so bad,” Keane whispers, even as he increases the speed of his hand on my clit and kisses my breast.

I moan and buck, my skin prickling. I’m on the ragged edge. “Don’t stop. Here it comes.” I feel like I’m losing control of my limbs. I grip the bed cover underneath me and arch my back, writhing at the outrageous pleasure he’s giving me. Oh my God, Keane’s fingers are magical. And now he’s sucking on my nipple so hard, it hurts. Oh shit, I’m so effing close. This is the most turned on I’ve ever been in my life.

Keane increases the speed of his magical touch. “You’re so hot,” he breathes, his excitement turning me on. “Come on, baby. Let go. Come for me. Concentrate on how good it feels.” His lips travel from my breast to my neck as his fingers continue working me.

I’m right on the edge. Keane’s fingers are owning me. His lips and tongue are giving me goose bumps. His hard-on pressing against my hip is divine. His scent. The song. Holy shit, this song.

“Listen to the song,” Keane whispers, reading my mind. “It’s called ‘Itch.’ Scratch your itch, baby. Listen to the lyrics and scratch your fucking itch.”

I do as I’m told, and after a brief moment of listening to the words of the song, my body releases with the strongest orgasm of my life. “Oh my God,” I groan loudly. “I’m coming so hard. Oh, God.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Keane says, clearly outrageously excited by my climax. And those are the last words he says before all hell breaks loose.

He climbs on top of me and kisses me voraciously. He’s groping every inch of me. Pressing his hard-on feverishly into my crotch. We’re panting. Clutching at each other. Dry-humping each other like lunatics. Kissing voraciously. Oh good lord, this is the most intense moment of my life. I’m literally dizzy—euphoric. I’ve never been kissed like this—with such urgent, desperate need before. It’s pushing me into a state of delirium like nothing I’ve experienced before.

“Make me come again,” I gasp against Keane’s lips, my pelvis tilting and grinding. I’m desperate for him, aching for him to plunge himself inside me and burrow himself all the way. “Do that thing to me, Keane. I’m all yours. Do it now.”

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