Part 23 (1/2)

Instead of rolling me off him, he took my weight on his body and wrapped his arms around me, kept me from escaping.

Almost as if he understood the panic shooting through me.

A single tear escaped my eye, because I knew what had just happened had utterly and completely ruined me.

I'm so f.u.c.ked.

14.

DRAW IT OUT.

I woke alone, slowly and disoriented. Sore. Deliciously sore, in all the best ways.

I heard heavy breathing, even and steady from somewhere in the room. Twisting and stretching, I rolled to the edge of the bed toward the sound and saw Harris, stark naked on the floor, doing pushups.

Which might just be the hottest thing I've ever seen. His bare a.s.s was taut and flexed, hard as granite, and the broad plane of his back was a ridged field of pulsing muscles as he lowered himself to the floor with exquisite slowness. His biceps bulged, gleaming with sweat, and he pushed himself up again just as slowly. He breathed out each time he lowered his body, and breathed in when he pushed up. Again and again, never rus.h.i.+ng, never wavering. A hundred times, he did this. I know, because I watched each one, counting with him, fascinated and hypnotized by the sight.

Jesus.

And then he rolled to his back, touched his fingertips to the back of his head, and did the kind of crunches where he jerked his knee toward his face while lunging his torso forward, touching his right elbow to his left knee and vice versa. I know he saw me, but he didn't pause, just crunched, crunched, crunched. Another hundred.

Hooooo, Lordy.

Then he stood, his feet slightly more than shoulder-width apart, and squatted, extending his arms as he did so, then stood up. Like the pushups and the crunches, he made each motion slow and deliberate and with total control.

I might have had to stifle a chuckle at that. I mean, how could I not? He was buck naked, so his junk was flopping all over the place, and it was kind of funny.

But then he finished his hundredth squat and his eyes cut to mine, he turned and stood in front of me, and I stopped laughing. Post workout, naked, sweaty, muscles swollen...Nick Harris was a f.u.c.king beast and I wanted him.

I stared at him, meeting his eyes, and then let my gaze slowly rake down his magnificent body to his c.o.c.k. It was waking up. Stiffening, hanging down but starting to curl to the side as arousal sent blood coursing through it.

f.u.c.k, I wanted him.

I needed him. I'd never needed anyone before, and it had me quaking with fear. I hated being afraid. It made me angry.

So I did the only thing I could think of: I slid off the bed and sank to my knees in front of him, staring up at him. He stood still, arms at his sides, breathing heavily. Maybe if I sucked his c.o.c.k, I'd avoid the intensity, the vulnerability, the need.

I began slowly, intending to make a production of this. Make it good. Make it last. Make it the hottest G.o.dd.a.m.n b.l.o.w.j.o.b he'd ever gotten, or ever will get. I carved my palms up his legs, starting at his calves and grazing them up the backs of his legs to his a.s.s, cupping it, kneading it, digging my fingers into the impressively iron-hard muscle. I turned my eyes down to his c.o.c.k, which was at half-mast, now. I held onto his b.u.t.t and nuzzled his belly above his burgeoning erection, feeling it b.u.mping up against my chin. Slid my lips around to kiss beside the root, and then touched my mouth to his tautening sack. He smelled of sweat, but it was clean, fresh sweat, and I didn't mind it. It was a manly smell, masculine, arousing. I took his sack in mouth and felt his d.i.c.k hardening against my cheek. A glance showed me his hands clenching into fists and releasing, and I flicked my eyes up to his. Snared by the fire in his green eyes, I couldn't look away, wondering what he was thinking. He had his poker face on, only his eyes giving away the fact that he was feeling anything at all. I knew he felt it, though. What, I wasn't sure, but something, and powerfully.

I let the length of his p.e.n.i.s slide against my cheek as I drew my face away from his body, and then finally the tip of his nearly-erect shaft was bobbing at my lips, hardening and straightening. I gave it a lick, a quick flick of my tongue against the head, and Harris sucked in his breath sharply.

I kept my gaze on his, opened my mouth, and took him between my lips, gazing up at him all the while, cupping his a.s.s with both hands. He let out a breath, and his brows furrowed. I backed away, let him bob free of my mouth, and ran my tongue up and down his length, licking him over and over again, broad fat swipes of my tongue against his salty, soft flesh.

I wrapped my lips around the head now, and suckled, starting slowly and gently and increasing intensity until I heard him groan and felt his hips flutter, and then I spat him out. He sagged slightly, exhaling a rough breath.

”Jesus, Layla.” He reached down and tried to lift me, but I grabbed his hands and shoved them into the tangled ma.s.s of my hair.

He buried his fingers in my hair and held on, but didn't make any move to urge me to go down on him again. He seemed content to let me do this my way, for now.

Fine by me.

I was totally avoiding things, because I knew if we f.u.c.ked again, there would be talking, and s.h.i.+t would get real, and I wasn't ready for that. Sucking his d.i.c.k nicely circ.u.mvented the whole business, pleasantly for him. And as for me? Well, let's just say his c.o.c.k was not only impressive to look at, but enjoyable for my mouth as well. Maybe I'm in the minority here, but I actually kind of liked giving b.l.o.w.j.o.bs. I liked the power, yes, the feeling of knowing I was able to elicit strong reactions. Control a man via giving pleasure. But I also just liked it, liked feeling c.o.c.k in my hand, liked to stroke the skin, and the musky taste, the feel of him in my mouth, the way he'd tense and explode. It was also a good test of the man, because the good ones would return the favor, maybe not right then, but at some point. And I also really enjoyed receiving c.u.n.n.i.l.i.n.g.u.s. If he didn't return the favor, there usually wouldn't be seconds for him. Call me a b.i.t.c.h, but it was a pretty handy rule of thumb. Not solely because of the oral itself, though, but more because if he wasn't willing to return the favor, he likely wouldn't be focused on making sure I got mine during s.e.x in general. Which didn't work for me. I expected to get mine. That's the whole point, right?

But this, with Harris, this was several things at once. It was a delaying tactic, an avoidance tactic. It was also because I just genuinely wanted to go down on him, wanted to exert some kind of control over him, put him under my spell as payback for the way he had utterly dominated me during s.e.x.

So, I went down on him.

I brought my hands around front, sank back on my heels, and curled my fingers around his shaft. He exhaled sharply, and his fingers tightened in my hair. I hadn't even done anything yet, but he was already grinding his jaws and gripping my curls for dear life.

Oh buddy. Just you wait.

I started stroking him; one hand loosely curled around his thickness and pumped up and down, my skin barely making contact with his. My other hand wasn't idle, though; I had his b.a.l.l.s in my palm and was ma.s.saging them as gently as I could. I stroked him slowly, gentle caresses of his length, up and down, up and down. When my hand reached the top of his shaft, I cupped my palm over his head and gripped it, twisted, then slid my fingers around the plump pink mushroom head and stroked short pumps around the tip, faster and faster until his hips fluttered and his breath left him in a gust.

And then I stopped.

He made a low sound of warning in his chest, a sound of disapproval. Good. That meant he was starting to really feel things, now.

I scooted backward, pushed him a step away, and then gripped his c.o.c.k in both hands and began a slow two-handed pumping, pulling him away from his body and leaning forward to take him into my mouth. Just the very tip, at first, the way you might put your lips on the very tip of a tall scoop of ice cream. Double-fist strokes, over and over. He was grunting, a low, almost inaudible sound, but a good sign. I started bobbing, replacing some of the strokes of my hands with my mouth, going lower and lower, my lips pa.s.sing the groove of circ.u.mcision but no further, bobbing up and down, sucking as the springy flesh entered my mouth. He started thrusting, and his grip on my hair tightened. He really had a thing for my hair, it seemed; he now had both hands gripping the ma.s.s of it tightly near the scalp. He wasn't applying any pressure, though, just holding. His hips flexed, pus.h.i.+ng his c.o.c.k farther into my mouth. I took it, accepted more of his thickness between my lips, let my tongue slide against his flesh, stroked with one hand only now, bobbing down into his thrusts, cupping his b.a.l.l.s and kneading them gently.

His breath was ragged, rasping grunts, and I knew he was close.

So I slowed down. Stroked his length as slowly as I could, lowered my mouth around him, opening my throat and leaning forward to let him in further, taking him deep. He liked that. I did it again, stretching his c.o.c.k away from his body until it was nearly horizontal, holding it by the base with both hands. I glanced up at him through my eyelashes and deep-throated him.

”f.u.c.k.” The first word he'd uttered so far.

I hummed a questioning sound-mmmhmmm?

His jaw flexed and he pulled at me, very gently, but a slight pressure as I moved toward him, his c.o.c.k pa.s.sing between my lips, over my tongue, the tip nudging my throat. Harris was breathing hard again, his abs tensed.

He was holding back.

That wasn't gonna work. He was planning to let me take him to the very edge, I realized, and then he'd retake control and try to finish inside my p.u.s.s.y. Try to make it intimate. Face to face, probably. Some way that he could make sure I was there with him, some way he could rea.s.sert my vulnerability.

h.e.l.l no.

So I sped up, started bobbing back and forth, taking him deep into my throat each time, until I had a good rhythm going. I felt him shudder, heard him grunt and sigh, muttering curses under his breath as he neared the edge.

Closer, now.

He throbbed in my mouth, and I tasted pre-come on my tongue. Full strokes, from the tip of his erection against my lips to his belly against my nose, long wet strokes of my mouth around his shaft. I moved my hands to his a.s.s and gripped him, pulled against him, encouraging him to move. He let himself thrust, then, and I kept pulling, harder and harder, getting him to thrust, to f.u.c.k my mouth.

And then he tried to slow down, tried to stop, jerking on my hair, but I ignored him and bobbed harder.

”s.h.i.+t, Layla. You need to stop.”

”Mmm-mmm.”