Mister O(50)

Come to think of it, I take a mental snapshot. I’m totally going to draw this image later. Don’t judge. I’ve only been obsessed with capturing a woman’s O face since, well, forever. And hers is like the holy grail.

So I decide to make it a double. Without giving her a chance to protest—not that she would—my lips are on her again, and just like that, she’s moaning, groaning, and writhing into me once more, flying into another orgasm in mere minutes. Judging from her wild sounds and her crazed cries, this one was just as good as the last. When I look up at her, she seems lost in a world of bliss.

Excellent.

I press my lips to her thigh, giving her a soft, gentle kiss, then I toe off my shoes and join her on the couch, lifting her feet onto it so we’re lying down, tangled up together. I pull her close to me, my arm wrapped around her as she breathes hard. “I think I’m going to call you Princess Come-A-Lot now. That work for you?”

She flashes me a woozy smile. “As long as you keep earning the right to call me that.”

I pretend to doff a top hat. “I am dedicated to your service.” Tugging her closer, I kiss her temple. “Wait. You don’t mind that I kissed you after I did that? I’m kind of covered in you right now.”

A light laugh falls from her lips. “I pretty much gripped your face and locked your head in a vise until I came all over your beard, and you think I mind that you’re kissing me?”

“When you put it like that . . .”

She shifts in my arms, then her eyes darken. “Kiss me again,” she whispers, low and dirty.

I oblige, all too happy to have my lips anywhere on her. I groan as she takes control of the kiss, her lips hunting me, her tongue searching my mouth. She is ravenous, and she kisses me like I’m her dinner, and holy fuck, it makes me delirious. Her hands are on my shoulders, and she pins me, pressing her deliciously naked body to my side. Her skin is so warm, and her lips are so greedy. Her hand slinks down my chest, her nails running through the hair on my pecs, and in seconds her hand is on my jeans, unbuttoning, unzipping, and scooting them down.

I’m helpless to resist. Not that I want to, mind you. Not the fuck at all. I just can’t. Because this girl is steering the ship. She shoves my jeans to my knees then off. In a heartbeat she breaks the kiss and stares at me stretched out on her couch.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, her tone an accusation.

“What?” I ask, confused. “Tell you what?”

She curls her soft fingers around my hard shaft, and I hiss out a breath. “Fuck,” I groan, as she touches my dick.

“That you were packing this kind of heat,” she says, grinning like the very naughty girl she is.

What can I say? I’ve never had any complaints about the size of the machinery; I’m just glad Harper likes what’s under the hood. “Whew. I thought you were . . . I don’t know . . . pissed about something.”

She shakes her head in an exaggerated fashion as she strokes me. “Not pissed. Try excited about something.” She runs her hand up and down my cock. “Excited about riding you.”

A shudder wracks my body, and I grab her face, thread my hand in her hair. “You don’t need lessons in anything. You say these wildly dirty things that turn me on.” I tip my forehead to my cock, thick in her hand. “Feel that. Do you feel how hard I get when you say that stuff?”

She shoots me a sexy smile. “All these things I want to do are in my head. Now I want to try them out. With you.”

“We can try anything you want, but I didn’t bring condoms tonight.”

She pouts but then picks up the pace, curling her hand tighter. “Tell me how you like it.”

“A hand job?”

“Sure.”

“Haven’t had one in ages. But it helps if you get it wet.”

She lets go of me for a second and dips her fingers between her legs. Holy fuck. She’s lubing me up with . . . herself. I push my head back against the couch pillow, blown away by this girl. Returning her hand to my erection, she spreads some of her wetness on me. “Like that?” she asks, breathy and sexy.

“Yeah, that’ll do just fine,” I say, as I thrust up into her palm. I can’t even remember the last time I had a hand job. At a certain point in life you just graduate to fucking and sucking. But the way she grips my dick—twisting her wrist, sliding up and down my shaft—sends hot sparks through me and makes me wonder if I’ve been missing out.

On hand jobs . . .

Or maybe I’ve just been missing out on her. Because the way she looks at me, her eyes roaming between my face and my dick, as if she’s appraising her work and checking for a reaction, makes me want to let go with her, too. To give in to whatever she wants to do right now. Let her touch me anytime, anywhere.