His hips arch toward my hand. My eyes jerk back up to his face, and I see that he’s still asleep.
I wrap my hand around him and give him a gentle squeeze. His dick pulses like it likes being petted. The purple tip calls to me so I scoot down in the bed and touch my tongue to the bead of pre-come that has beaded on the slit. I pull back. He tastes salty and clean.
I want more.
I bend lower and grab his dick at the base, then take the head into my mouth and close my lips around it. A flash of salty spray hits the back of my tongue as he pulses delicately. A breath escapes his lips, and I look up to find his mouth open and his eyes squeezed shut.
I take a little more of him, and he rolls to his back. His eyes fly open, and he lifts his head to look down at me, but I close my eyes and take him all the way to the back of my throat.
“Friday,” he says softly, his voice rough, his tone nasally from sleep. “Stop.”
I shake my head, and his dick moves back and forth in my mouth. He groans and threads his fingers in my hair. I suck harder. His dick is so hard I can barely pull it back from his stomach, so I get closer and take him deeper, shuttling my hand up the base. There’s way too much of him for me to take him completely into my mouth.
“Friday, please stop,” he says. He sounds like he’s struggling, and I look up to find that he’s watching me. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to come in your mouth.” He tugs on my hair, and I wince, but I don’t stop. “Friday,” he says a little louder. “Pull back.”
I shake my head again and lock my mouth around his dick. I’m not popping off. I don’t care if he gets up and moves; I’m going with him.
But he’s not moving. He stays. He stares down at me. His blue eyes are intense and so fucking hot that I never want him to look away from me. “Please pull back,” he whispers.
I say “no,” but it comes out more as a mumble because I don’t want to break suction. I can taste more of him now, and his salty essence tickles my tongue.
“Take it, then,” he finally growls. Then he holds my head in place with his fingers tangled in my hair and pushes into my mouth. He groans, and his dick pulses, and he comes so much that it runs out the corners of my mouth because I can’t swallow fast enough. “Take it,” he says again, and he thrusts over and over, until he’s done. “Take all of it,” he whispers. I do. I suck him clean, and finally, he jerks away. “Enough,” he says quietly. “Too sensitive.”
I laugh. He wipes the corners of my mouth and pulls me up to lie on his chest. I turn so that my face is over his heart and listen to the beat of the blood racing in his veins. It slows, and he grows quiet, his hands swiping up and down my naked back. It’s more fingertips than hands, and it tickles in the best of ways.
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” he finally says.
I turn so that my chin pokes into his chest. “Why?”
“Because every time I look at that pretty mouth of yours, I’ll see you with your lips wrapped around my dick and my come leaking out the corners.” He slaps me on the ass. “I won’t be able to get you off my mind.” He’s quiet for a minute. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I don’t do anything I have to do,” I remind him. It’s true. I pretty much do what I want when I want. It’s one of the benefits of being single and alone. One of the only benefits. “Don’t let me come in your mouth is a stupid complaint for you to have, to be honest.” I laugh against his chest.
A chuckle rumbles through him. “It’s been a really long time.”
“How long?”
“Months.”
I snort. “Like you didn’t use a little hand action.”
He scoffs. “Men don’t do that.” He pauses. “But once or twice a day.” I look up and find him grinning down at me.
He’s silent for a moment.
Then he blurts out, “This doesn’t change anything.”
“What doesn’t?”
“You ambushed me by taking my dick in your mouth while I was sleeping, but this doesn’t diminish what we have. I’m still going to marry you. I’m not going to let you get out of it.”
I sit up. “I don’t think I said yes.”
His gaze drops to my boobs, and he licks his lips. “You will.”
I shake my head.
He sits up and cups the side of my face. “You don’t want to be married or you don’t want to be married to me?”
“It’s not—” I stop. I don’t know how to say what I want to say. “It’s not you.”