Holy hell.
He was so deep in her mouth that her lips reached almost to his base. He was torn between wanting this to last forever and the primal need to come as soon as possible. He imagined the spasms of her throat and the spasms of his cock, and almost spilled right then.
She made contented noises as she withdrew and slid down again, her lips loosening and tightening, her hands massaging his thighs, moving him closer, pushing him farther away. He wanted to do something for her, too, so he stroked a hand along her back, reaching to touch her smooth, round cheeks. She lifted her ass into his hand, tipping back until his fingers, almost of their own accord, slid down and into her, into heat and wet and—
“You’re getting off on sucking me.”
She answered by curling her tongue again around the head of his cock and dropping her hand down to apply pressure to his taint. She was on her elbows and her knees, now, dipping her head, her pelvis tilted to present as much of herself as possible to his hand.
“You like it. You’re not just doing it to be nice.”
He twisted his fingers inside her, and she bucked back against his hand, seeking more, groaning around his erection.
“What if I mess with your nipple with this hand, and then put my thumb inside you and then crook my fingers around and—”
In answer, she came, whimpering against his cock, spasming around his fingers. He immediately urged her onto her back, and knelt on the bed over her. Quickly he found a condom in the night-table drawer, and before her aftershocks were finished, he was in her, taking her through the last of the pulses, his own orgasm shooting up from the soles of his feet and gripping him until it shook him limp.
Haven.
“I think you had it all wrong,” he said. “You don’t like it neat. You like it messy. You like it hard and dirty and—”
“I think...” she said uncertainly. Her breath was warm on his shoulder. “I think I like—you.”
11
PETE SOVEREIGN HAD relocated their coffee date from a big, busy Starbucks to a coffee shop that he’d described as “intimate and cozy,” and when she showed up, he was sitting at a table near the door with two mugs and two plates in front of him. He pushed one of each across the table to her. “Let me guess,” he said. “Decaf mocha with skim and a warm chocolate croissant.”
Actually, what she usually ordered was a double espresso straight up and a crispy rice treat, but she thanked him and sat. She’d never been pulled over for drunk driving, but right now she felt as though she was walking heel-to-toe along the yellow divider, pacing out the narrow line between yielding to Pete’s whims and telling him to go to hell. Somehow everything depended on her slightly impaired ability to balance, for her sake and for Mark’s. Pete held both of their careers hostage, and she couldn’t just blow him off.
But God she wanted to tell him to take a hike.
He gave her a complete once-over, staring down her shirt. Then he said, “So. Have you had enough of Mark Webster yet?”
There was that attitude again. She knew he wanted her to smile conspiratorially; to say, “Mark’s great!” with her voice and, “We both know better!” with her eyes.
She hadn’t had enough of Mark Webster, though, and she wasn’t quite sure she’d ever have enough. She wasn’t sure she even knew what it would mean for her to have enough of Mark Webster, and the mere thought sent a reverberation of pleasure through her.