What She Needs (6 page)

But when his hand eased up higher under her breast, when his thumb stroked upward, over her nipple—she couldn’t get the words out. Just another gasp. She wasn’t wearing a bra under the halter dress, leaving one less barrier between her chest and his touch, and the sensation had shot through her like a rocket soaring toward the heavens. A glance down revealed
both
her nipples, erect and poking through the cottony fabric of her dress, and she wondered if they’d been like that all through dinner. And then his thumb stroked the same hard, beaded peak again—and
seeing
it this time in addition to feeling it made her let out a tiny sob of pleasure.

Say something. Because you can’t just let this happen. You can’t.
“I . . . I thought I read . . . that guides . . . are never involved in sex with their guests.”

“They’re not.” Now his voice came like a low growl in her ear.

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m breaking a serious rule, sunshine.”

“Wh-why?”

“Because I need to show you,” he murmured, stroking his thumb across her breast yet again, making her shudder within his grasp. “I need to make you see how bad you need it.”

At the moment, she didn’t think she’d ever needed anything more in her life. But she wasn’t about to admit that. Instead, she insisted, “This means nothing. This is . . . seduction. You’re a sex expert—you know how to seduce girls.”

“This means everything,” he replied. “Because you’re not telling me no. And I’m not even sure you like me. But you can’t stop because it feels so good. Because you need it so bad. You need me to touch you.” With that, he moved his hand full onto her breast, massaging the soft fullness, leaving her helpless, unable to summon more words. Her breath grew thready and her only response was to melt a little deeper into his arms.

Yes, not just one arm now, but both—he wrapped around her from behind and she stayed agonizingly aware of his erection at her rear, pressing deeper now, even as his other hand slid, slow and seductive, downward over her stomach.

“You need me to stroke your hot little pussy, Jenna,” he breathed fervently.

And again, she shuddered at the promise as her legs grew weak and her cheeks flushed with heat, shock.

She held completely still as his fingers sank lower, lower, finally easing between her legs over the cotton skirt of her dress. She sucked in her breath as that part of her seemed to swell—she suffered the odd sensation of growing larger and larger in his hand.

Oh God, he was touching her there. Her eyes fell shut, her head dropped back. He caressed her fully—her breast, her crotch. She heard her own breath—she was panting for him now and hadn’t the power to stop it.

Without ever taking his hand from between her thighs, he began to gather the fabric of her dress in his fist. He was going to touch her.
Really
touch her. Thank God.
Thank God.

Finally, he’d bunched the full length of the skirt in his fist, allowing him to slip his hand underneath—and straight into the lacy edge of her panties. His fingers moved surely, smoothly, over her pubic hair and down into her very core, making her let out a ragged cry of pleasure.

And then she began to move—her moisture against the solid pressure of his fingers. Yes,
yes
.

“Ah, God, you’re so wet. That’s how bad you need it, honey.” Another deep, sexy rasp came warm on her ear as a tropical breeze lifted her hair from her shoulders and somehow made her feel even wetter.

And part of her wanted to deny what he’d said, about needing it, but she couldn’t think of an argument that made any sense. All she could think of was sensation. And moving against his big fingers as they stroked, stroked, ever so capably through her feminine folds.

His smooth voice was like another form of touching her. “That’s right, honey, move against my fingers. Fuck them,” he whispered more gently than she’d ever heard that word uttered before.

Jenna had never felt this way in her life: blinded by lust. She held on to the railing in front of her with both hands, bracing herself, moving more vigorously against him. Against his fingers in her wetness, against the incredibly hard column that slid up and down through the center of her rear.

She would come soon—she knew it. She bit her lip and thrust herself at his touch with sheer abandon. She kept her eyes clenched tight—she wasn’t sure why but didn’t examine it; maybe she’d always done that when approaching orgasm. And she was pretty sure she’d have climaxed already if she hadn’t been fighting this so hard, but she was unable to fight any longer. Oh God, she
was
wet for him, dripping wet, and for a brief, startling moment she allowed herself to revel in that, in how wet he’d made her and the knowledge that she was getting his hand
just
as wet.

“That’s so good, baby,” he purred in her ear now, “so damn good. But you need more, sunshine, and you know it. You need my hard cock in your tight little pussy.”

And—dear Lord—she did. The dirty promise vibrated through that very part of her, making it ache—for more than just his skilled touch, for . . . fullness, something thick and sturdy inside. And she knew she should end this—because sex was a big step beyond touching—but she felt almost paralyzed, stuck between two extremes, both nagging at her. Her instinct was to say
stop
, but if she did, he would, and that wasn’t what she really wanted.

Now both his hands were up under her dress, pulling her panties down to midthigh. And then his touch was gone and she knew he was undoing his pants. Her paralysis grew worse—stark, raging lust warred with something that ran nearly as deep: her common sense, her lifelong morals, the sense that having sex with a stranger was insanely wrong.

His hands closed warmly on her exposed bottom now, and—dear God—his erection pressed into the valley there, his hard, hard flesh nestling where she was soft. She bit her lip and gripped the rail tighter, nearly torn in half with conflicting emotions.

“Tell me you need it, baby,” he purred, low and demanding. “Tell me you need my big cock.”

Unthinkable. She didn’t know how to talk that way. And she couldn’t admit to needing it—she just couldn’t. “I can’t,” she whimpered, hating how weak she sounded.

Now his fingers dug slightly into her hips, and his rigid length began to . . . move up and down again, sliding, as if sawing into her defenses. “Then tell me you want it,” he whispered more softly, seductively. “Tell me you want this, sunshine.”

She let out a breath. Faced the cold, hard truth. “I can’t do that, either.”

Behind her, he tensed slightly—she heard him breathe in deeply. God, she was frustrating him. But she couldn’t help it. This was entirely new territory and she wasn’t even sure how she’d gotten here.

He leaned back in, slow, warm, and at the same time slid one hand back around to the crux of her thighs, letting the tip of his middle finger come to rest on the spot where she felt most swollen and needy. “What
do
you want, Jenna?” Despite what she’d feared, his voice remained entirely gentle, understanding. He was really asking her, asking her what she wanted.

It forced from her . . . a shocking, unshrouded truth. “I want . . . not to decide. Because no matter what I say, yes or no, I won’t be happy. I want . . . the decision taken away from me.” Her eyes bolted open then to peer out on the dark, empty beach in the distance, across the dunes, to the stars now dotting the night sky, and the world felt surreal. She wasn’t sure what she’d just admitted, but it felt . . . like a confession of epic proportions. It left her more drained than anything else that had happened here—her limbs felt weak; her
soul
felt weak.

But Brent still held her up. His hands eased around her in a warm embrace from behind, settling at her waist. He leaned over and gently bit her shoulder—barely letting his teeth press into her flesh—and the unexpected affection jolted through her, straight to where he’d been touching her, forcing a sigh from her throat. “All right then, Little Miss Sunshine,” Brent murmured against her neck, “I’m going to give you what you want.” Then he leaned closer and spoke even lower. “What you
really
want.”

Her lips trembled as she found the quiet strength to turn her head toward his, bringing them face-to-face, their eyes, mouths, only a few inches apart. “Which is?”

“Just like you said. You don’t get to decide. I do. And I’m going to fuck you
so deep
,” he promised, his teeth clenching lightly, “
so good
, that it’s gonna be the best you’ve ever had. Because that’s what you want—
and
what you need, baby. To be fucked.”

Their eyes still locked, Jenna parted her lips to speak, having no idea what she intended to say. But Brent stopped her anyway, with a short shake of his head. “No words, Jenna. No more decisions or choices. You just do what I say now. You just be a good girl and turn around and hold on tight to that rail.”

Jenna drew in her breath and slowly did what he instructed—looked straight ahead and gripped the railing. And felt guilt and worry slip away, like a silk gown falling from her body. It was a game of words, but that didn’t matter—somehow, never telling him she wanted it made it less heinous. Forcing him to make the decision washed away the conflict inside her.

His hands locked on to her hips less gently now and her body tensed with strange pleasure as she waited. He pulled her closer then, making her re-situate slightly on her heels, her back arching. And then—God—his fingers were there, behind her, moving between her legs, parting her, and at least two of them pushed up inside her, making her cry out. Yes,
yes
! At last—something there, inside her. She bit her lip, her breathing ragged.
More, please.
She wanted to beg—but she couldn’t. She didn’t
want
to want it. She just wanted him to take it.

His fingers thrust inside her and she heard her own wetness and wondered briefly what she looked like bent over a handrail, her dress lifted to her waist—but she pushed that thought aside. In fact, she shut her eyes again since that made it all easier. To just feel. To just pretend she was dreaming or something.

And then Brent’s fingers were gone and Jenna knew what would come next, so she bit her lip, bracing herself, and then there he was—so, so hard—positioning himself, and she instinctively arched deeper, lifting her bottom higher, and then—
oh
!—he was inside her, entering slow and, as promised, so very deep.

Thank God she held on to the rail or she’d be on her knees now. The sob that left her rose from her gut. God, he felt big—it had been so long since she’d done this. But he also felt
good
, delivering that incredible fullness she’d yearned for.

When he began to move in her, it was slow, thorough, his strokes stretching all through her—from head to toe. Big, so big. He filled her. And she gradually began to push back against him, meeting his long, sensual thrusts, taking him deeper still.

“Open your eyes, Jenna,” he purred over her. She’d turned her head to the side at some point, so he knew they were closed. “Feel this. Experience this. All of it.”

Biting her lip, she did as he said. She took in the beach again—a glimpse of white foam as waves broke over the shore in the moonlight. He was right. She felt it more this way. And it made it . . . dirtier. To be forced to remember she stood in a gazebo, fully dressed, being . . .
fucked
by him, a total stranger. She never used that word, but
he
used it a lot, and as he drove up into her wetness, again, again, she knew that’s what this was—fucking.

She pushed against him, harder, harder. She heard her own labored breathing.

And then Brent’s hand snaked around from her hip to the front, and when he sank his fingers there, she moaned.
Yes, yes, God, please.
More words she couldn’t bring herself to utter. With some other lover in some other place and time, maybe—but not with this stranger, this man who insisted he knew what she needed. It was impossible.

So instead she simply moved with his touches and heard her heady moans waft up into the warm night air. Like before, each hot grind gave her pleasure from the front
and
the back, only much more intense now. His other hand rose to cup one breast through her dress, finger and thumb toying hotly with her nipple and making her undulate more wildly against him.

His heated breath behind her fueled her, exciting her more. Soon he released her breast—only to thrust his hand inside her dress and warmly recapture it, flesh to flesh. She cried out at the new connection, and when he caught her sensitive nipple between two fingers, squeezing it as he began to massage—oh God. She bit her lip and thrust her wetness more insistently against his hand. And he whispered, “That’s right, baby, that’s so good.” And he began to drive his erection into her harder, harder, and she looked out on the beach and—oh my—spotted a couple, naked, doing exactly what
they
were: fucking.

She took in everything Brent delivered as she focused, stunned and incredibly aroused, on the couple in the sand. The man lay on his back and the woman rode him wildly, her arms over her head like some sort of erotic cowgirl. They were far away, small from where she stood, but she could still make out the movements clearly, could still see the woman’s large breasts swaying in the moonlight. And she could sense the woman’s pleasure, stark and
guiltless
pleasure—and that was when the orgasm exploded through her body like an earthquake, the crux of her thighs the epicenter.

She heard her cries—couldn’t begin to suppress them; she clutched the rail as tight as she could, feeling the rolling waves of pleasure echo through her from head to toe, a release so powerful she could barely withstand it. The world shifted; everything inside her spun and tilted crazily.

When it was over, every part of her body tingled, all the way out to the tips of her fingers and toes—and somehow she and Brent were on their knees now, both of them. She’d sunk there, unable to keep standing, and he’d descended with her—still inside her.