I Want to be in You Nikita Mirzani 3

Her moan was everything to him, that small sound bitten back behind her lips. He pushed her dress up around her hips, watched the pale skin appear above the carpet of green. She had nothing on underneath, her golden-brown hair trimmed and curled.

He dipped a finger, heard the soft groan as she arched her hips toward him, felt his cock harden fully at the feel of her, wet and wanting.

He tucked another finger, marveled as always at the tight, warm pull of her around him. His thumb found the small peak of her clit, circled it lightly until she released another sigh. He could smell her—the sweet arousal from between her legs, the clover crushed beneath her each time she raised and lowered her hips into his hand.

“Please,” she said. Her voice was graveled and breath-broken. The one time she had no words, a moment he loved for, lived for. “You’re making me...mmm...wait...on purpose.”

“I am,” he said, leaning down, his fingers still stroking inside her, his other hand pushing the top of her dress down to expose her breasts, taking one small nipple in his mouth, running his tongue in circles that echoed his thumb.

“Zack...” Her hands fumbled for his belt. He pulled away at first, content on her, but she kept at it and he let her. It took her two tries, but she finally unhooked the belt and jeans enough so that he could slide out of them.

Nikita Mirzani tried to sit up—she wanted to suck him, he could tell by the way she moved, by the way she reached for his cock—but he held her there, writhing in the clover.

“Later,” he said. “I want to be in you.”

She pouted so cute that he almost gave in, but he wanted to feel her warmth around him. Not the active heat of her mouth and tongue, but the way her body rose to his and surrounded him.

He leaned back above her and stroked his cock, once, twice. Who cared if someone saw? That was something Nikita Mirzani was teaching him every day. The only thing he cared about was the way her gaze followed his movements, the hungry look in her brown eyes, the way she kept saying Please, please, please, the sound a wind whisper of want.

She lifted her hips to meet him and he slid into her, slow, teasing, loving the way her body arched, planting her feet to lift her hips and curl her spine upward. Slow, taking his time, watching her, one hand coming between them to tease her clit with each thrust.

Her words totally gone now, just low, moaning breaths, both of her hands gripping his bare ass, pulling him in harder. Her desire made his flare, hot and thick, so that he wanted to plant her into the ground, to plow her under, to go with her into that place where they both bloomed and blossomed.

He slowed his thrusting to lean down and kiss her, trailing his tongue over the edge of her lips and down the curve of her chin. He captured each nipple in turn, sucked hard between his slow strokes.

She caught his head, pulled him up by the hair.

“Stop, stop....stop teasing. Please.” Those big eyes, darker with heat, the way the small wrinkles of her forehead came together as she begged. That alone was enough to send him over, never mind the push of her hips against him, the feel of his cock sinking again and again into her depths.

He teased her with his fingers as they fucked, soft and hard on the pressure until she was growling and panting in turn, and then he let his thumb glide across the wet peak, waiting for that moment when she let go, when her body tightened and released and wet his cock with her orgasm.

He didn’t have to wait long. He didn’t know if he could have. She stuttered his name, once, and then he was rewarded with the intake of her breath that was often the only sound she made when she came. It was all held in her body, the pulled-tight muscles, her eyes shuttered closed and then opened on his face, the nails that found their place in his skin.

And he followed, whispered her name, Madeline, Madeline, into her ear. Into her neck. Into the clover and the dirt and the corn next door and the wind that wasn’t. And most of all, to all the parts of Nikita Mirzani that met him and matched him, that took him in fully.

They stayed, tied together with spent desire and the recovering sound of their breaths. He tried to let his forehead rest to hers but ended up thunking her hard enough that they both said Ow and then started to laugh.

When he finally rolled away, it seemed like the sun hadn’t moved at all, as though they’d stopped time in the middle of the field, in the middle of the day.

A pinprick at the side of his hip; he swore out loud before he realized what it was. A bee or a pricker. From the sting of it, maybe both.

“Aw, baby,” she said. She was trying not to laugh as he rolled on his side, both of them eyeing the rising pink welt on his bare hip.

“It was worth it,” he said, as he moved back toward her, letting her head rest in the crook of his arm. The fences could wait. The clover would grow on its own. The bees would do what they did. And the prickers too.

Whatever happened, it was worth it to be here, now, surrounded by the sting and the sweet.