Felicity

I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.

Ares’s touch is lighting my skin on fire. His kiss—he fits.

I tug at his shirt while he strokes my nipple through my bra. My breasts are so tight and heavy and turned on, I keep imagining them blossoming into roses, which is ridiculous, because breasts can’t blossom, but if mine did, I have no doubt Ares would take his time licking and caressing every petal, dipping his tongue into every crease and crevice, and I’m fairly certain I’m losing my mind.

But the sensation—the lust—the hard length of his cock between my thighs—I’m definitely losing my mind.

And I don’t care.

He scrapes his teeth over my shoulder, his thumb rubbing the lace of my bra against my tight nipple, his other hand stroking my back and dipping into my jeans, and I need to touch him.

He nibbles on my jaw, finds that spot under my ear, and I moan while I scrape my fingers over his sides.

His skin—so hot, over muscle so hard it should be reclassified as rock and declared a national monument. Ridges. Valleys. His nipples are hard peaks too.

I roll them between my fingers, he growls, his cock pulses through our jeans, and we’re both in way too much clothing.

Gammy’s ghost is going to be so pissed, but I don’t care.

Ares needs me.

I—oh, holy ghosts, he’s sucking my earlobe, and the sensation sends a lightning bolt straight to my clit. I jerk against him.

I’m so wet. So hot. So desperate.

I reach between us. I don’t know whose jeans I want to go for first. He’s so big, I want to feel him. I want to stroke his cock, lick it, drive him insane.

But if he doesn’t touch me, I’m going to die. Explode in a mass of over-stimulated nerves and ruptured blue balls.

Blue pussy? Blue clit?

I want him to touch my pussy. To tease me and stroke me and fondle me like he’s teasing and stroking and fondling my breast.

My hand finds a button, and I unhook it.

Mine.

Not his.

We make eye contact.

His brilliant blue eyes are swirling under his rigid brow. Now? More? You’re sure? I want to lick you until there’s nothing left to lick and then bury my fingers so deep inside you that you forget your name, and after you’ve come until you can come no more, I’ll spread your legs so wide and give you everything I have with my monster cock, opening you wider than you’ve ever been, taking you deeper than any man has gone before or will ever go again, and when your pussy comes around my cock, you’ll scream my name and you will be MINE.

My pussy clenches. My clit throbs. I gasp.

Ares tilts his head, claims my mouth, licks my lip, glides his thick tongue over mine, and drags my zipper down.

I whimper.

I thrust against him. Tilt my pelvis to give him more room.

His fingers brush the skin just over my panties, and the scent of my arousal fills the room.

He hums in my mouth, growls, possessive, primitive, and dips a finger between us along my seam.

I’m so wet.

So wet I should be embarrassed, but his finger slides so easily to tease my channel, feels so fucking good, I can’t work up anything more than a moan of pleasure.

He touches my clit with his thumb, a light flick, a hint, and I pump against his fingers. He takes his tongue deeper into my mouth, I imagine myself sucking on his cock, he flicks my clit again, circles my entrance with his fingers, draws out the pleasure almost to the point of pain.

And I can’t get enough.

I’m sitting right on the edge of release, so ready, so heavy, so swollen, so slick. I whimper into his kiss, and he changes the angle, pulls back to suckle on my lower lip, exploring my pussy, teasing me, stroking me, dipping two fingers inside, almost touching me where that hot, tight coil is building, but pulling back before he gets there.

Not because he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Not because his fingers aren’t long enough.

Because he’s drawing out the pleasure.

Making every stroke of his long, thick fingers intentional.

I gasp, I whimper, I moan, and he pulls back.

He knows.

He’s reading me.

Learning me.

Studying me.

Don’t tell me Ares Berger isn’t smart.

He’s a fucking evil genius.

And I do mean fucking as in fucking. A sexual master.

“Please,” I whimper. “Please, Ares.”

He flicks my clit. I spiral higher, spread my legs wider, thrust hard against his fingers. He buries them deep inside me, as deep as he can go, and when his fingertips reach that magic spot, he curls them into me, and I shatter.

I cry his name, my back arches, my toes clench, and I shatter. Collapsing from the inside out. Writhing and squeezing and exploding. My vision narrows to a clear blue sea, fireworks light the sky, dolphins dance, volcanoes erupt in a shower of glitter and confetti, and I come, and I come, and I come.

Riding a dolphin of pleasure down the waterfall of orgasm island.

Paradise.

Sweet, weightless, boneless paradise.

Just me.

Ares.

And the magic orgasm dolphin.

I’m having a hallucigasm.

Catching my breath against the hot, soft cotton of his Minners do it in the Worning T-shirt.

My lids drift shut over my glazed eyes. I belatedly remember I need to breathe.

And Ares is still rock hard beneath me.

I need to do something about that.

Soon.

Now.

My arms are limp noodles.

“Oh my god,” I whisper.

Two strong arms wrap tight around me. He rests his cheek on my head. “You fix me,” he says.

I don’t know if it’s a request or a statement.

But as I drift happily in that magical land between orgasm and consciousness, it occurs to me that maybe it’s both.