I can’t tell if he’s being polite or if he’s nervous being here, out of his element. He doesn’t need to be. I’ve relaxed, and now the heat from earlier is seeping back into my body. Truthfully, having him here—on my home turf, so to speak—and seeing how it discombobulates the great Jackson Croft is kind of a turn on. It makes me feel powerful.
“Did they grow up around here?”
“I don’t want to talk about my parents right now.” He looks up from the photo, confused.
I walk over to the back of the couch. I lean forward on it so that my ass is sticking right toward Jackson. I hike up my skirt and say, “Could you help me get these off?”
Jackson is on me in two strides. He falls to his knees and pushes my skirt up over my hips until only my pink lacey panties are showing. I watch over my shoulder as Jackson slowly slides them down.
“Spread your legs,” he says, and I spread my legs nice and wide for him. He pops my ass with his palm, startling me. He sits up a little more on his knees, takes my ass, and spreads my cheeks. His tongue covers my wet slit in one long stroke that starts at my clit. He licks me again, getting me even wetter as little bolts of lightening shoot through my stomach. I stick my ass back further for him and he smacks it again before burying his face back into my pussy, his tongue a magician on my cunt. He swirls around my swollen clit then licks the hole of my cunt, darting in and out of me. Jackson moans as he feasts on me, voicing how much he loves the taste of me, which only makes me hotter, wetter.
I can’t reach back for his head, but when I push back on him again his moans make me pant until I feel like I’m losing my breath. Suddenly his fingers are inside me, his mouth gone but on my ass, kissing me still as he pumps me with two fingers, pulling out to circle my nub before dashing back up inside up, all the way to his knuckles I’m sure, giving me so much pleasure I’m not sure my senses can take it.
I’m not sure if he does or I do but suddenly I’m turned around and standing up, back to the couch, Jackson still on his knees before me. His fingers never left me; he’s still slipping them in and out of the wettest pussy that ever existed. I hold my skirt out of the way as I watch him staring at his fingers pumping me with fascination. I use my other hand to grab a fistful of his hair and tug him closer. I need more, I need all of it. My cunt is throbbing, and he fucks it with his fingers as his mouth covers my clit again, flicking his tongue over it, lapping at it. I can hardly stand, leaning back on the couch for support as my hand stays buried in his thick hair. God, watching him from above, his face digging into my crotch, is too fucking sexy. He works his fingers in me, pushing higher, pumping harder, and I feel the walls of my sex tightening, sparks of light flashing as I squeeze my eyes, and come all over Jackson’s mouth and hand.
“You can’t keep doing that,” I say when I finally catch my breath. “You can’t keep giving me all the pleasure. It’s not fair.”
“It’s more than fair,” he says, his hands roaming my thighs and hips under my skirt. “As long as you’re enjoying it, I’m more than enjoying it.”
I look down at him. “But what about you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yes, you are,” I say, combing his hair back into place. “But you need more. I want to give it to you.”
“All I need is you, Emily.”
I believe him when he says that. What he doesn’t realize is that it only makes me hotter for him.
“You’re in my house now,” I say. “You have to play by my rules.”
A smile twitches on his lips. He may think he’s satisfied, but he needs more.
I lead him over to my bed and sit him down on the edge. It’s my turn to strip him down, let him be naked before me. I can still feel the wetness of his tongue between my legs, and I want to do my best to give him some of the same pleasure he gives me every single time I see him. I sit down on my knees before him and begin by taking off his shoes and socks.
I’m nervous. I don’t know if I’m any good at this, and knowing Jackson has been with many women before me doesn’t help matters.
Still, I want him. I want to take him. I want to go further with him than I have any other man. Admittedly, that doesn’t take much for me, but there’s no one I’d rather be with than Jackson Croft.
I start with his shirt—even though I can see his impressive bulge through his black pants. I bite my lip to keep from going straight there as I pull the soft fabric of his shirt up and over his head, mussing his hair as I do. His chest is a work of hard planes and deep valleys showing the ripples of his abs. I trace my fingers tenderly over his skin and the light hair that covers his chest. I run my hand over his heart and pause to feel its beating. It’s a quickened pace that tells me whatever I’m doing is right. So I go for his belt buckle and watch as his chest rises and his stomach pulls in. He’s eager.