His hands were rough and warm and big, and I wanted them everywhere on me. I wanted them against my breasts, I wanted them possessive and greedy on my waist. I wanted them in my panties, in places no one’s hand but mine had ever been. I wanted him to brand me with his touch and write his name onto my skin with pleasure.
I grabbed one of his wrists and pushed his hand up to cup my breast.
“You sure, Big Red?” Keaton whispered against my mouth. “Because I want it a whole lot. It might scare you how much.”
“Just—please—Keaton—”
He’d already obliged. The moment I said please, he’d palmed my breast, squeezing gently until I moaned. He teased my nipple through the silk of my bra cup while his other hand pulled at the bottom of my sweater.
“Get this thing off,” he grunted. “I need to see you.”
I was too addled with lust to disagree or to remember that my smallish breasts might not be up to scratch. Or to care that Keaton had probably seen half the school population without a shirt and that I might be found lacking. All I cared about was having more, feeling more. More, more, more.
Together, we peeled my sweater off and tossed it on the floor. Then both of us were fumbling with the buttons on my shirt, struggling to get them open, all while we were still trying to kiss and touch each other too.
“Fuck it,” Keaton growled, and he ripped the shirt open the rest of the way, sending two buttons to lonely deaths on the darkroom floor.
I shivered as he pulled back to look at me, to look at my pink silk bra and my exposed stomach.
His eyes—still that magical, eerie purple from the red light—glowed with hunger as he took me in, but when he spoke, his voice was almost soft. Almost wondering. “You have freckles even here,” he whispered.
I flushed as he traced the upper swells of my tits with his fingers, and then I moaned as he replaced his fingers with his mouth, trailing kisses all over my skin. He lowered his mouth and then sucked my hard nipple through the silk.
Jolts of heat traveled from his hot mouth straight to my pussy.
“Oh my god,” I moaned. “Oh my god, oh my god.” As I was losing brain cells by the second, it was all I could manage.
“I’m going to look at them now, Iris,” he said, and his voice was a mix of arrogance and tenderness that I didn’t think I could ever get enough of.
I nodded, but he was already working the silk cups down and freeing my breasts. The cups and underwire underneath them lifted them up and pushed them out, as if they were being presented to him, and the fact that I still had my shirt on made it feel even dirtier somehow.
And the look on his face . . . like he’d just taken a shot of vodka. Like he’d just run across a bed of hot coals.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, his eyes raking over my freckled breasts and their straining, tight little peaks. “Jesus. Iris—I—”
He wasted no more time with words, and instead bent down to take the tip of one past his lips.
I’d never felt anything like his mouth there. Never. It was hot and wet and ticklish and sucking—it was powerful, it made me arch and whimper and twist my fingers in his hair.
“You like that?” he asked. He hadn’t lifted his head, and so his words ghosted across my wet, needy flesh. “You like having your tits sucked on?”
I made a noise that was an awful lot like a whine, and he gave a dark laugh.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ll keep going.”
He moved to my other breast, kissing around the pebbled skin, circling its peak, and then finally took it into his mouth, sucking and then fluttering his tongue over the stiffened tip. He scraped his teeth gently along it, and I jumped against him, and then moaned again.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmured—almost to himself. “Filthy girl.”
It was then that I noticed he was idly palming his erection as he sucked on me, as if he couldn’t help himself, and that thought was so hot, I couldn’t stand it. The idea that I inspired lust in him, that I could make him hard, that I made him need to come . . .
“Come here, dirty thing,” he said, helping me off the table. I made a noise of complaint that his mouth wasn’t on my breasts anymore, and he laughed that dark laugh again, tugging on my braid and then spinning me around so that I was facing the table and he was standing right behind me.
“You’ll like this, I promise,” he said.
“H-how do you know? I’ve never done it before—oh—” My voice broke as Keaton’s hand found the hem of my skirt and then slid up a thigh to cup me where I was covered in plain, white cotton. I wished I’d worn something sexier, something more adult, but Keaton’s growl as he palmed me sounded anything but disappointed.
His fingertips pressed in a little, finding the place where my clit hid, and I shivered against him.
“You’re right,” he purred. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve ever done this before, because you’ve never done it before with me. And I’m going to ruin you for any other boy who comes after.”
He pushed with his fingers again, sending frissons of pleasure skating down my thighs and up my spine. “Keaton,” I panted, pushing back against him. I could feel the clothed ridge of his erection against my bottom as I did, and he gave a grunt at the pressure. “Do it—please—just—just go—”
“Go where, Iris?” he whisper-asked, his fingers playing over the elastic edges of my panties now. “Inside these sweet panties? Right up against your skin?”
His actions echoed his words, and he slid his hand down the front of my panties now, his fingers toying with my silky curls, and then with the straining bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs.
“I—please—” I didn’t even know what I sounded like. Not like myself. Not like Iris Briggs who only had one goal: escape to Paris. I sounded like a girl who’d be happy to stay in this darkroom forever, and not to work on photography.
“Ohhh,” Keaton said in mock-epiphany. “I think I know. You want me to—” His fingers went lower . . . and lower . . . “—go somewhere else, don’t you?”
A lazy fingertip pushed past my folds and circled the slick secrets inside. I gasped, slamming my hands down on the table. No one had done this to me, not ever. It had only ever been my own hand, and I never could have guessed how different another person’s touch would feel.
“You want me to go inside, Iris?” Keaton asked in a rough, seductive voice. “You want to feel my finger inside you?”
I nodded vigorously. “Yes, I want that. Please—oh holy shit.”
He’d slid a finger inside of me, giving me a moment to get used to the fullness, gently grinding his palm against my clit as he did.
“How does it feel?” he asked, a hand dropping to my hip. I realized I was grinding back against his hand, riding it and chasing the friction, and he used the hand on my hip to encourage me, guiding me until I was practically fucking his touch.
“Good.” I worked the word out on a long, juddering exhale. My nipples ached in the cool air, and when I looked down, I saw my skirt bunched up near my navel and Keaton’s muscled forearm disappearing into my panties.
I thought I might spontaneously combust.