I’ve dreamed about touching her, imagined how her she would fit in my palm. But no fantasy could’ve prepared me for the reality of it. She’s so soft, yet firm. And as I squeeze her, mold her, shape her, I silently admit to myself that I’m damned. Because the knowledge of how sensitive she is, how she arches into my caress, how her hard, little nipple impatiently thrusts against my palm is going to haunt me, a ghost that refuses to be exorcised.
I jerk my mouth from hers and tug up her shirt. Black-lace-covered bronze skin greets me, and my mouth waters as the tip of my cock weeps. I want to claim these beautiful tits with every part of my body—my mouth, my hands, my dick. Even as I yank down a cup, baring her to my greedy eyes, I envision straddling her chest and gliding my aching, thick cock up the valley between her breasts. Fucking her tits has just became a must-do on my bucket list—right after eating her pussy and burying myself balls-deep in it.
I stare at her brown, gleaming skin. Take in the swell of her flesh and the dark-brown beaded tip. Watch as it puckers even more, as if inviting me—no, pleading with me—to swallow her whole. And I can’t deny anything when it comes to India.
“Asa,” she whimpers, dragging her hands from my back to clutch my shoulders. “Please.”
“What, baby girl?” I ask, goading her, knowing what she needs from me. But I want to hear those pretty, dirty words fall on my ears. I tear my gaze from her chest to her face so I can watch them form on her lips. “Please, what?”
A frown creases her forehead and her fingers flex against me. She trembles as if uttering the words aloud is too much.
“Ask for what you need from me, India,” I demand, and as incentive, I brush my thumb across her nipple, drawing a ragged, agonized moan from her. Goddamn. That sound is so fucking pretty. I circle the tip, tracing the dark areola, wanting it to be my tongue. “Now,” I rasp, desperate for that taste.
Her lashes flutter then lower, but her voice doesn’t waver when she whispers, “Suck my breast, Asa. Please,” she tacks on to the end. Her lashes lift, and I’m damn near drowning in the copper depths glazed with passion. With need. “Please make the hurt go away.”
Fuck. Oh fuck.
Whether she’s aware of it or not, she’s hit my easy button. I would move a goddamn mountain to relieve her pain. To ease it. And I would level that same mountain to the ground if she would let me be the cause of the sensual agony darkening her eyes.
I want to be her tormentor and her savior.
Lowering my head, I bury my face between her breasts, breathing in her sultry, musky scent. Jasmine and rain. Perspiration and skin. With a growl, I turn my head, capture her nipple between my lips. Draw hard on it. Tongue it. Scrape my teeth over it.
Her hands abandon my shoulders for my head, her fingers twisting in the strands, tugging. Each pinprick across my scalp enflames my hunger, and I dine on her. My fingers fumble for the other breast. Hook under the bra cup. Yank—
“Uncle Asa!”
Rose’s shout from down the hall douses me in a sheet of ice.
Shit.
Wrenching away from India, I stare down at her, wondering if my eyes are as wide, as filled with shock and lust. Pain ricochets from me, the abrupt jolt of emerging from such pleasure to cold loneliness a blow to my system. For a moment, my mind scrambles to compute that I’m no longer touching her. That her scent isn’t in my nose, my mouth.
“Uncle Asa!” Rose’s voice is closer, and panic spirals up from my clenching gut to my chest, exploding like shrapnel.
Exhaling a rough, jagged breath, I drag a hand through my hair and stalk around India toward the hall, cutting Rose off mid-way. And hopefully granting India enough time to right the mess I made of her.
“What is it, Sweet Pea?”
She shoots me a disgruntled look, crossing her arms over her pink robe. “I was calling you forever. Where were you?”
“Saying goodbye to India.” I’m going to hell for lying to my niece. Especially when I can still taste India with the mouth that’s doing the fibbing. “What’s up?”
“I forgot to get my towel from the closet.”
“I’ll get it for you. Go get in the shower and I’ll leave it on the back of the toilet for you.”
She nods slowly. “Okay. I want the one with Belle on it,” she instructs me, eyeing me as if she can’t trust me to choose the correct Disney princess.
“Got it. I’ll be right there.”
Yes, I’m rushing my niece along so I can return to India and try to rectify the damage I’ve wreaked on an already tenuous truce. And as I pivot and head back toward her, the “I’m sorry” is already crawling up my throat and crowding into my mouth. I’m familiar with its bitter flavor. Just as I’m well-acquainted with the guilt churning in my gut.
Jesus. I scrub a hand down my face. I lost complete control. Again. One taste of her and I didn’t care about who she was—whom she belongs to. Because it doesn’t matter if she and Jessie are no longer together, she will always belong to him. She can never be mine because she was his first. He’s my brother in every way but blood, and to be with India means betraying him.
And that I can’t do.
He’s never failed to have my back. After my football career littered the ground in ashes, he helped me buy the garage when no bank would touch me or my credit. Since then, I’ve repaid the loan back with the interest he didn’t want, but still… If it wasn’t for him, I would be working for someone else, earning the bare minimum instead of being my own boss.