Nightfall by Evelyn Glass Page B

fingertip, just that one point of contact, with no context or warning. “I think we should get rid of those. What do you think?” His voice stroked the inside of her thighs, tracing up towards her wet center.
     
    “Yes,” she whimpered. Her hips shifting again. “Yes.”
     
    “Lay down,” he said. “Put your hands above your head. Clasp your hands.”
     
    His tone was so calmly definitive that she followed his instructions without much question. She put her hands behind her head, clasping her hands as if she was praying, and then laid down on her back.
     
    It felt like he was standing over her. It felt like the bed shifted, but she couldn’t tell in which direction. Was he kneeling over her, or resting on his elbows near her head, or—there was no way to tell.
     
    She waited for panic to rise through her, to feel the thrill of the unknown, but instead, she found a quiet, restful silence. She wasn’t in charge. It was okay for her to peacefully, quietly wait for him. It was a relief.
     
    His fingers, just his fingers, traced down her body, from the tips of her breasts—he swirled her shirt around her nipples without ever touching them—following a path over her ribs and down to her navel. His fingers danced around her skin for a moment, dragging her shirt up out of the way of her belly button, riding the edge of tickling her and making her giggle. She sighed in contentment, and then felt his fingers dip below her waistband. Giggling wasn’t anywhere on the menu.
     
    It took him approximately forever to undo the button on her jeans, to drag the zipper down tooth by tooth. He kept taking time to find her skin again, to reconnect to her. He didn’t say anything, but just his touch was reassuring, delicate, and careful. She felt pleasure washing through her, but for the first time, she saw what he meant about not reaching for it—about just letting it be.
     
    Perhaps he saw the understanding and the relaxation in the lines of her body; his movements became quicker, more directed. He tugged at the waistband of her jeans, and she lifted her hips just a little to let him pull them off. His fingers traced over her thighs, and then, more firmly, dug into the flesh of her body in a way that made her hiss and sigh. She could hear small sounds from him, in time with her own. His fingers moved to her inner thighs, dragging down from the vee covered by her panties to her knees, over and over, with such force and such speed that it was completely unexpected when her pussy was covered by hot warm heat. She gasped as he breathed over her, inhaling her deeply and then exhaling. When her body bucked, his mouth was there to meet her, tonguing her forcefully through the cotton lace. She murmured sounds that were supposed to be words as he slipped his shoulders under her knees, tipping her hips up to meet his mouth. His teeth skimmed over her, worrying delicately at her clit. The sensations were roiling through her now, faster and harder, and she felt frustration rolling right along with them, surging through her, ready to be angry, ready to give up when the release didn’t happen. She growled at the sensation, low in her throat, trying to force it off and away.
     
    “I agree,” he whispered into her skin. “These absolutely are in the way.”
     
    She knew he understood the real source of her sounds, and she adored that he gave her another way to redirect the irritation. She expected him to back off, pull her panties off, and then continue what he was doing to her—god, she hoped he’d keep going—or maybe find a condom and fuck her senseless—but what she never expected was the way he simply moved her panties aside and pressed the flat of his tongue against her. She roared as she was swamped with intensity, coils of electricity twisting down into tight, intense points of light circling his tongue, which was now flicking over her clit with deliberate pressure.
     
    She felt the orgasm, just on the other side of this