Secrets and Sins:RaphaelBy: Naima Simone
“Do it again.” His demand was almost guttural, and the grip at the back of her neck tightened. “Ride me again.”
She whimpered both at the sensual command and the sharp pleasure that intensified with each pass of her clit and folds over his erection. Greed, lust, and a virgin feminine power swelled within her, yanked her into their undertow. She lowered her arms, palming his knees and giving herself leverage and more control over the speed and depth of pressure.
His heated, rough murmurs filled the rapidly warming interior. He told her how beautiful and sexy she was. How good she felt riding his cock. How he couldn’t wait to be inside her and watch himself slide in and out of her. She trembled, his words so erotically charged that when he cupped her breasts and brushed his thumbs over her beaded nipples, she almost came.
With hurried but sure hands, he shoved her jacket off her shoulders, the material trapped at her wrists. Unerringly, he located the zipper at the back of her dress and yanked it down. When he tugged the sleeves over her shoulders and arms, she lifted her arms, wriggling free of the constricting material. The jacket slipped silently to the floor, and the top of the dress pooled around her waist, leaving her torso bare except for her white lace bra.
For a moment, old insecurities invaded the sexual haze she’d drifted into. She wasn’t top-heavy by any stretch of the imagination. Her small breasts—more than an A but not quite a full B—had never inspired an uncontrollable passion in men before, and she’d always been self-conscious about her size. Even Gavin, who’d claimed to find her beautiful, had offered her a chest enhancement, aka boob job, for a wedding gift. Surely Raphael, with his stunning looks and sex-on-a-stick aura, attracted women who resembled women and not girls barely out of their teens…
“Shit, you’re gorgeous. Fucking perfect,” he groaned, palming her flesh, squeezing and shaping. He didn’t bother with unclasping the back closure but lowered the cups so they pushed up her modest cleavage. Not that he seemed to mind—or notice—that it was modest. No, as he leaned forward and captured an aching tip between his lips and laved it with his tongue, emitting a deep, vibrating moan, she believed to him she was truly…perfect.
“Oh, God,” she breathed, tangling her fingers in his hair and holding him to her. Each tug reverberated in the core of her, pushing her closer to the edge she both raced for and backpedaled away from, wanting this wicked torture to last.
His fingers and mouth played her like an instrument, tuned her tight and made her sing. He plucked, strummed, and stroked her body, drawing forth the sweetest pleasure, resonant notes that echoed in her head, her belly, and lower, deeper.
One hand abandoned her breast and slid down her stomach, passed over her skirt. The soft, urgent caress reversed at the hem and began its ascent up her thigh. The material hiked and bunched over his wrist. Cool air washed over her inner thighs and the wet, pulsing flesh between her legs.
Except for their labored breath, a heavy silence weighted the air, almost like the pregnant pause before the fury of a storm struck. He lifted his head, stared down at her spread thighs and the white panties that had to be damp and almost translucent by now. Her chest rose and fell as she sank her teeth into her bottom lip and gazed at the top of his dark head. She tensed, fighting against the urge to close her legs, hide the obvious evidence of her need.
Maybe he sensed the impulse within her, because he shifted, cupped her. Pressed the heel of his palm against her clit. Hard.
She broke. Cracked wide open and everything poured out of her—ecstasy, cries, whimpers, words, doubts, fears. Everything. The orgasm crashed over her, through her, leaving her shuddering, weak, and craving more.
And as Raphael levered his hips up, jerked his wallet from his back pocket, and snatched out a small foil square, the yearning sharpened. He tossed both to the seat and reached for his belt.
And she reached for him.
“I, um.” Greer cleared her throat. Twisted the strap of her purse. Studied the empty street in front of her brownstone. Everything but meet the incisive, dark-blue gaze of the man she’d spent the last three hours having sex with in the backseat of his truck. “I— Thank you.”