Losing Control(70)

My hands fumble at his waistband, but I manage to unbutton and then unzip his trousers. Delving inside his briefs, I release a moan of delight at the feel of his heavy cock in my hands. God, had it only been a few hours since I last touched him? It seems like months. As Ian lavishes attention on my breasts, I encircle his cock with both my hands. The wetness on the tip exhibits his desire. I want more of that. I want all of him.

His mouth is back on my neck, sucking hard. The suction sends a shudder throughout my body. Ian lifts me against him and walks into the bedroom, following me down. With swift kicks, he rids himself of his pants. I can’t stop touching him.

“Need to taste you,” he grunts and pushes down my body, ripping my panties down my legs. Without any preliminaries, his mouth is on me and his tongue is inside me. Bells sound in my head followed by the rasp of a heavy guitar. Wait, a guitar? I manage to roll my head toward my nightstand where my phone is ringing.

“Don’t answer it,” Ian orders. He’s on his knees now, braced over me. His mouth is slick from my wetness, and he’s replaced his tongue with two of his fingers. I turn away from the phone. Malcolm can wait. Reaching down between us, I pull out Ian’s cock. Saliva pools in my mouth. I want his thick length in my mouth, down my throat. I want his balls in my hands. Tugging on him, I sidle downward and he reluctantly lets me. I can tell he’s torn between wanting to be in my mouth and wanting to finger me, but it’s my turn.

The phone rings again. And again. And then there’s a knock on my door. “Tiny,” I hear my mother say. “Malcolm’s on the phone and he says it’s urgent.”

I drop my hands from Ian’s body and he groans in dismay. “Jesus. I hate your brother.”

“Me too,” I sigh. If it weren’t for my mom, I’d ignore the call and finish stripping Ian’s clothes off. Picking up the phone I hit the call button. Immediately Malcolm starts yelling.

“Why aren’t you picking up? I’ve got four fucking angry customers that need their deliveries. Are you going to get your ass in gear and make deliveries of me, or do I have to get someone else?”

“Get someone else,” Ian barks because Malcolm is speaking so loudly that the people in the apartment next door can hear him.

“Is that fucking Kerr? Are you fucking him?” Malcolm is pissed off.

“None of your business, Malcolm,” I shoot back, but I’m up and moving toward the closet. Ian curses and heaves himself out of bed. His cock bobs angrily in the air as he wrenches on his discarded boxers and then his pants.

“I’m sorry,” I mouth to Ian, and he gives me a tight smile. His pants are tented out, and Ian grips himself and then heads into the bathroom.

“I’ll be there in thirty,” I say and hang up before Malcolm can shout any more obscenities.

“I don’t like that you do deliveries for Hedder,” Ian grits out while he begins shaving once more. I intentionally keep my gaze away from him because he’s angry and because he looks so goddamn sexy shaving. I kind of resent how intensely attractive I find him.

Ian stomps around some more, picking out a tie and then wrapping himself up tight. He picks up the same mother-of-pearl cufflinks that he wore the other day, which I find odd given that he has so much money one would think he’d have dozens of cufflinks. He seems to have a huge number of ties in my closet alone. Who knows what he has stored at his Bruce Wayne fuckpad.

“Yeah, well, I need the money.”

“You work for me.”

I ignore that and get dressed. Out of the bedroom, the living areas are empty. My mother has made herself scarce. Ian’s right behind me.

“I can get you a different job. A permanent one. You wouldn’t need to ride bikes in New York’s insane traffic where any number of cabbies are hoping to knock you off the street.”

“Like a made-up one?” I mock because there’s no job in the financial sector where someone like me could work. “Tell me what company. What would I be doing?”

He shrugs, and I know it’s a fake job. “I’m not sure. Let me look into it.”

“I don’t know.” I’m reluctant to give up the income that Malcolm’s drop provides. “I’ll think about it.” I grab my pack and make sure my headphones are inside of it.

“You do that.” He gives me a hard kiss and then pats my butt.

When I get to Queens, I’m ten minutes past the thirty I’d promised and Malcolm is seething. He throws the packages at me when I cross the threshold. “You are so fucking dumb, Tiny.” He paces in the living room as I unzip my bag and stuff the five envelopes inside. He recites the addresses to me, and I’m grateful that they are all grouped together over in Brooklyn. Park Slope moms who can’t stand their kids, I think.