She moaned and took me in as far as she could, her hand pumping up and down what her mouth couldn’t handle. I struggled to maintain control, allowing myself only the smallest thrusts between her lips. Inside me a battle waged between a monster desperate to do unspeakable things to this angel on her knees for me, and a man who wanted to maintain control. The pressure inside me was building, pushing me toward the edge, and I kept pulling back, pulling back, pulling back, because I never wanted this to end. And the more I fought the release, the harder she worked me. Goddamn, she’s good at this! How is she so good at this?
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, she pulled my dick from her mouth and flipped onto her back, her hair and head and neck hanging over the edge.
She reached for me. “I want to make you come like this. Let me.”
I almost lost it.
Willing myself to hold on for one more miraculous minute, I guided my cock between her lips, watching as she took me in deep. Jaw-dropping, mind-blowing, eye-popping deep. Her hands gripped my hips, moving me in and out, while I looked on in amazement and fought the insane urge not only to come but to tell her I loved her, propose marriage, and offer to father her children if only she’d just keep doing what she was doing. For a moment, I was paralyzed with pleasure, but then my body took over, my hips rocking with the rhythm she set, my cock pumping hard and quick into her mouth.
What the fuck is she doing to me? I can hardly breathe! What’s that sound? Is that my pulse? It sounds like a marching band is in the room. I think I’m having a heart attack. It’s beating way too hard. I’m going to die. This is it. This is it! Oh my fucking God, this is iiiiiiiit…
I didn’t die. But I did come harder than I ever had before, in several seconds of earth-shattering bursts, grunting and gasping as my cock throbbed between her lips. As my vision clouded with silver, I imagined the way I was filling her mouth, sharing myself in the most intimate, most erotic, most dominant way possible. But it was the craziest thing—she was powerless beneath me, yet I felt vulnerable to her.
What the fuck was happening?
When I could see straight again, Claire was still gasping for breath, her head on the bed again. Wait, she’d swallowed? Maybe I would propose.
OK, I wasn’t that crazy.
But there were other things I could do.
“Miss French, you are a very naughty girl.” I walked around the side of the bed, staring down at her. “Where did you learn to do that?”
She propped herself up on her elbows and smiled. “I read it in a book once. Did you like it?”
I grabbed her by the ankles and yanked her legs toward me, rotating her body so she lay across the bed. “I think you just swallowed that answer.”
She licked her lips.
“And now,” I said, unbuttoning her jeans and peeling them off, “it’s my turn.” I pulled her toward the edge of the bed and dropped to my knees.
“You don’t have to.”
I flung her legs over my shoulders and gave her a look. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No. I did that because I wanted to, not because I expected anything in return.”
“Good, because I’m not doing this for you. I’ve had a very bad day and the only thing that will make it better is the taste of your pussy and the sound of you screaming my name while I make you come. Got a problem with that?”
She smiled. “No.”
“Good.” I stroked up her center and felt the tremor in her legs. “Now let’s get started.”
* * *
When we finally wandered downstairs after a ninety-minute nap (neither of us had slept well last night), it was about six o’clock and both of us were hungry.
“My kitchen is a mess,” she said, picking up my coat from the floor at the foot of the steps. I followed her through the living room, where she tossed my coat on the couch, and into the dining room. “I started the cabinet rehab today.”
“Wow, you did.” I switched on the light and examined her work. “Nicely done. I like the stain. Needs another coat, huh?”
“Yeah, that was the plan, but I got—”
“Naked?”
She giggled. “I was going to say distracted.”
“Not sorry.”
“Me neither.”
Our eyes met, and something happened inside my chest, a quickening. It was slightly terrifying, and also kind of nice. “What if we order in and get that second coat on tonight?”
She smiled. “Sounds good to me. Pizza?”
“Perfect.”
She ordered pizza and a salad and opened a bottle of wine while I retrieved the paint brushes from the basement sink, stirred up the varnish, and got started. “Want a glass?” she called from the kitchen.
“No, thanks. Actually, I don’t drink.” It felt like a safe piece of myself to share, and for some reason, I wanted to share a few pieces with her. Just a few.
“At all?” She stood in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, a glass of red wine in her hand.
“Nope.”
“Are you…recovered?”
“You could say that.” I painted the cabinet doors with long, even strokes.
“How long?”
“I never went through rehab or anything. But I quit drinking about six years ago. Right after my first niece was born.” Another safe piece.
“That’s…that’s great.” She paused. “But now I feel bad for drinking in front of you.”