Ramsay(4)

By: Mia Sheridan


"Can I see you?" she whispered. "Please, Brogan? I want to see you." She began tugging on my T-shirt and I let her, lifting my arms as she brought it over my head. I sat before her, hardly breathing as her eyes raked over my bare chest. I knew I was fit. How could I not be? I did physical labor eight hours a day most days. But I'd never been naked before anyone. And this wasn't just anyone. This was Lydia, the girl who made my guts clench with nothing more than a glance. I felt vulnerable and afraid. I watched as Lydia's delicate throat moved in a swallow. "God, you're beautiful," she said. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

I nodded. I was incapable of anything else. She reached her hand out slowly and ran her palm down my chest, using her index finger to move over the ridges of my stomach, stopping at the sparse, dark line of hair under my naval that disappeared into my jeans. I sucked in a breath as her gaze moved down to the erection straining through my pants. Her eyes met mine in question, and she must have seen something in my face that gave her permission, because she reached down and ran her hand over my shaft. "Oh God," I groaned, helplessly pressing myself into her hand. I couldn't believe this was happening. This was . . . I couldn't think. I could only want. And I wanted Lydia. I'd wanted Lydia for what seemed like forever.

We lay back on the cot, and she unbuttoned my jeans and slipped her hand inside. When she wrapped her warm fingers around me, I jerked in her hand and groaned, lying perfectly still, just focused on the sensations. Pleasure and pain. She brought her lips to mine again as she stroked me, and I turned my mouth away from her. It was too much. Too much all at once. She continued to stroke me and after a minute, she sat up and took her tank top off, followed by her bra. Her gaze stayed on me as she undressed and when her breasts popped free, I barely resisted the urge to moan at the sight alone. She was so beautiful it hurt me a little. Her breasts were full and high, creamy white where her swimsuit had covered her skin from the sun. Her nipples were a pale pink and already hardened. Jaysus, so pretty. Barely hanging on to control, I sat up and tasted them, rolling one around my tongue. Lydia gasped, but only pressed toward me. "You're making me ache, Brogan. I want you. I never knew . . . Oh," she gasped. I sucked a nipple into my mouth, learning the texture of that intimate skin, like velvet with barely discernible, soft ridges at the very peak. And her skin, yes, it was clean with a light hint of vanilla—maybe a body wash that still barely lingered. She rolled out from under me, my mouth coming off her breast, but before I could question what she was doing, she stood and shimmied off her skirt and underwear and then removed my shoes and socks and jeans. I watched, dazed. I should stop this. I should. It had gone too far and I couldn't figure out how it had happened.

But then she was lying next to me, warm and soft, and I forgot why this wasn't a good idea. In that moment, I barely knew my own name. My senses were focused only on her, naked in my arms, and it felt so blessedly good, so right.

Lydia . . . Lydia.

She kissed me again, and I reached between her legs and felt the slippery evidence of her arousal, rubbing it between my fingers and then bringing my hand back to the place that made her buck and yelp. She was so slick, so lush. "Oh God, Brogan, yes, please. Don't stop."

We touched, and explored, and stroked until we were both moaning and panting. My blood was swirling through my veins in a fiery frenzy. And yet all the while, Lydia seemed to understand that I couldn't take too much at once. She seemed to know when to withdraw her hand from one spot so I could focus on what she was doing to another. She seemed to understand that for me, there was a fine line between pleasure and pain, that my senses were overly acute. She couldn't know, of course, because I'd never attempted to explain how it was always this way, but she reacted to my body as if she did know, as if she understood this about me better than I did. And I was lost. When I moved over her, there wasn't an ounce of hesitation in her eyes. She opened her legs, and she welcomed me.

I pressed inside her, inch by inch, gazing into her face. Her beauty. Mesmerizing. I was awed that I was inside her . . . or nearly. When I came to the barrier of her virginity, I met her eyes, full of trust and wonder, and whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, sweet Lydia. Mo Chroí." And then I pressed inside, tearing her. She cried out in pain. I wanted to comfort her, but it felt so blessedly good that I could only bring my forehead to hers, holding myself still by sheer force of will, gritting my teeth to stop myself from thrusting, while she became used to my invasion. Why did it have to be that something that felt so wonderful to me hurt her? I had never imagined anything feeling so good as her hot muscles clenched around me, pulling at me, stroking me from deep within. "Are ya okay?" I finally managed. She nodded, and I began to move, groaning with pleasure at the tight friction surrounding my throbbing erection. Sweat broke out on my back. I knew I wouldn't last long.

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