“Greyston…” I pant, reveling in the way he fills me completely every time he plunges into me.
“That’s it, beautiful,” he whispers breathlessly, thrusting harder and harder. “Let me hear you.”
“Oh god, Greyston!” I cry out when he thrusts so hard he hits that sensitive spot inside of me that makes my toes and fingers curl. I desperately claw at the door. “That’s it! Holy fuck! Harder, baby, please,” I beg.
He pulls his hips back and steps away from my body, leaving me dangerously on the edge. Before I can ask him what he’s doing, he takes my hand and leads toward his desk chair. I step out of my shorts while walking, and as soon as he’s seated, I move to straddle him while he holds his erection, using his other hand to guide me down slowly; it’s the sweetest kind of torture one can imagine, and this new position makes every muscle in my body tense as it fights off my release for a few more minutes.
Once I’m resting against his thighs, he ensnares my hips again and begins guiding my movements. I get the hang of it soon enough, and place my hands on his chest while my hips move with his guidance. He never releases his hold on me, and he starts pulling me a little rougher, my clit rubbing the spot just above the base of his cock. All at once, my body reacts; every muscle tenses, my fingers curl against his strong shoulders, the nails biting in and leaving little half-moon mark in his skin, and I cry out as Greyston’s hips thrust up into me in short, precise jolts.
His mouth falls open in a silent cry, so I release my cat-like grip on him with one hand and lay it along his jaw, drawing him into my eyes. “I want to hear you,” I tell him, my words punctuated by my panting breaths.
His fingers tighten around my hips, tingles of pain quickly morphing into a warm rush of pleasure as the sensation shoots through my body, and my toes curl. He pulls me against him, faster and rougher, as he races toward his own release.
“Oh, Juliette,” he grunts.
“Yes…” I whimper as I feel the swell of another orgasm rolling in. “Oh, god.”
“Baby…I’m going…holy fuck…I’m gonna come.” Then, with a loud, almost roar-like cry, Greyston thrusts his hips up into me one final time, pulling me against him as our orgasms crash down around us.
Breathing hard, I collapse against him, our chests, sweat-slickened and heaving, pressed together. We sit in the almost-silence of his office, the mid-day sun filtering in through his balcony window and spreading across the hardwood floors, and bask in post-orgasmic bliss.
Our first time had been amazing, and I honestly didn’t think that anything would ever top it—until right now. The way Greyston reacted when I gave him a blow job will be forever burned into my mind, not to mention how uninhibited I’ve become since we finally gave in to our urges.
“That was incredible,” I pant, combing my fingers through his hair.
With a satisfied hum, Greyston nods. “I can’t stop thinking about that damn blow job.” I bite my lip and scrunch my nose, readying myself to hear what he thought now that the moment has passed. “It was mind-blowing.”
“Yeah?” I’m relieved that I haven’t misread him again.
Closing his eyes, he sighs and nods. “Mmm. It’s hard to believe it was your first time. You really did your homework.”
Reminding me of all the porn I looked up makes me blush, but I wouldn’t take it back even if I could. Instead of clamming up like the old Juliette would have done when reminded of something borderline-humiliating, I shrug. “You know me…I take my studies very seriously.”
My body shakes when Greyston laughs, and sooner than I’d like, he’s ushering me off his lap. “What do you say we clean up and go grab a bite to eat? I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking starved.”
Nodding in agreement, I follow him to his room and excuse myself to use the bathroom. When I return, Greyston takes his turn while I throw on one of his T-shirts and head downstairs to finish preparing something to eat.
I’m just putting the finishing touches on a couple of sandwiches when I feel warm arms around my waist and a head on my shoulder. His lips touch down on my neck briefly, and I smile, bringing my hand up and placing it on his cheek as I turn to give him a quick kiss.
We decide to eat in the living room so that Greyston can watch ESPN—for work, he claims, and since he’s a sports agent, who am I to argue his reasoning?
“Did you talk to your mom about dinner tomorrow?”
“Damn. I knew I was forgetting something,” I tell him, remembering how we both wanted to talk to our families about the holidays. “I’ll text her and remind her. Do you think our mothers will be okay with us hosting Christmas?”