East Rising (Naive Mistakes #2) by Rachel Dunning Page A

moments
just like these: When the wife asked the husband "for a little
favor, honey" while she went down on him...
    "Close your eyes," I said. I could see he
was enjoying this. All the while I kept moving my hand up and down,
ever so slowly, feeling his skin underneath mine.
    I learned something there, that night. I
learned about closeness, maybe even something about love. Because,
to me, as I'm sure it was to Dorian, this was purely physical. And,
as much as I enjoyed holding him, squeezing him, pressing him and
feeling his hardness under my palm, his moisture, the veins which
were now more pronounced, I couldn't — and the idea even repulsed
me a bit — bring myself to tasting him, to putting him inside my
mouth or inside any other part of me.
    Not even the early stuff, the pre-come. None
of it. This was strictly a hand-job.
    "This is good," he whispered.
    It was good. It was very good. And the
center of my legs was now wet as hell, sticky. I lifted my right
leg so that my knee faced the ceiling. Dorian's eyes were closed
but soon his hand was between my legs.
    "Uh-uh," I said gently. He frowned. "Don't
take it personally. We can do it my way or we can do nothing at
all, OK?"
    He shrugged. "Suit yourself."
    All the while...up, down, squeeze.
    I smiled as I rubbed him. I
was so in control.
I leaned into his ear and whispered, "I want to make this last." He
smiled. An involuntary smile, and he blushed.
    "Good," he said.
    There was only one problem... As experienced
as I was making myself out to be, I really wasn't that experienced
at all, and there was no way for me to broach the subject other
than to just say it. "Um, Dorian..." I kept my voice at a whisper,
not wanting to ruin the mood. "Um, I haven't really done this very
often so...you'll have to tell me when..." I was hoping he'd fill
in the pieces.
    He didn't. So I stopped rubbing.
    "No! Continue!" he said, his hand firing to
mine on his shaft and getting it going again.
    "You'll have to tell me when you're, um,
about to come, so that..."
    "So that you can stop?"
    "Exactly."
    "I'll do that."
    He'd opened his eyes as he'd said "I'll do
that." Grassy green eyes in the middle of the Amazon... Lush and
rich and moist...
    I looked away from them. I
had to keep that fence up. Just had to...
-6-
    The problem with sex — and I include what
Dorian and I were doing in that statement — is that, the more you
foreplay, the more you want it. The more it clouds your thinking
until all you can think of, all you can feel — like steel in your
limbs, taut and ready to snap — is the desire for completion.
    I twisted and turned
Dorian's cock, slowly and firmly, each time waiting for him to say
— no, to quiver —
the words, "OK, wait, wait..." Then he'd lick his lips. They were
dry, so dry from the length of time he'd been breathing with his
mouth open, trying to get enough air. His eyes were closed more
often than not.
    I kept him going for thirty
minutes. Thirty .
It was two-thirty A.M. now. He'd gotten harder — so much harder it
felt like a pole in my hands — and bigger. His shaft was red from
all the friction, screaming to explode. But every time he got
close, and he gave me the word, I stopped. He taught me that if I
held it, tightly, and didn't move even a hair of an inch, then he'd settle
down. "Don't move!" he said a few times, his right hand digging
into my leg, his left into the blanket next to him.
    I didn't. I held him. Then he told me: "If
you squeeze it just at the bottom here" — he showed me — "that also
stops me coming." So I did that as well, but not often, because we
stopped early enough each time.
    In those thirty minutes his hand had gone a
few times over to between my legs. Each time I wriggled away. But
the problem with sex, is that it makes you desperate for more...
For completion.
    Conall had been the only man I'd ever
tasted. It meant something. This, with Dorian, was physical, purely
physical. But after half an hour, those two things — emotional