by Liv Lane
“I should go,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he wants to and doesn’t make any move to do so. He’s staring at me, a smoldering look that burns me and holds me captive. “Or, you could answer the question.”
Question? Cock? Choking? Yes, that question. That burning question that I’m not sure I understand.
“I—I’m.” I’m not sure how to answer. I’ve never experienced it, so that part is easy. And no, I’ve never fantasized about it, so the whole question should be easy. If I say that he’s going to walk out the door, though, I know he will. And I don’t want him to leave.
Also, I’m pretty sure when I read the next part of the book, I’m going to acquire a whole new fantasy—the book has instigated a few.
He’s still staring at me, waiting for my answer.
“I’ve never done that,” I admit honestly.
He’s so still it’s unnerving. “Do you want to?”
I can’t believe we’re—discussing this. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
He nudges his head at the book. “Charlotte wasn’t sure either.” The faintest smile touches his lips. “Mitch didn’t give her a choice.”
Ohmyfreakinggod! I swear my pussy clenches. Who says stuff like that out loud? What kind of man would read a woman’s romance—okay porn—book and then question her about it?
His eyes darken. “Tell me to leave.”
I shake my head. I still don’t want him to leave. I want to explore some of the things he’s obviously done. Things I’ve only recently learned about courtesy of Doreen’s biker romance book.
“Don’t freeze up on me, Emma. Tell me to leave or tell me to fuck you. But if you say nothing, then I’m going to decide for you. My decision will always be the door if a woman is in any way uncertain.”
“I want you to stay,” I whisper.
“And fuck you.”
“Yes.” I nod several times. I definitely want him to do that to me.
He shakes his head, and his lips tighten. “If you want me to do that, then you’re going to have to ask for it.”
Ohmygod, this is torture.
“Please stay and…fuck me.”
CHAPTER NINE
SHE DOESN’T NEED to ask me twice.
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a woman this much before. It’s killing me. She’s killing me with her obvious reluctance to say fuck. I swear that’s the first time she’s ever used that word, and it makes my dick hard.
Cock—I really want her to say cock. I pride myself on my control, but I’m confident hearing the word ‘cock’ spoken in her shy whisper will be my single greatest test.
I’ve been semi-hard ever since I opened the erotic book. I was full mast when I got to the part where Charlotte started choking on Mitch’s cock.
Not that women’s porn does it for me. I’ve never read any in my life. No, it’s the thought of Emma reading it that’s doing things to me. The thought of all those other kinky books she’s obviously been reading. How many does she have? What are her favorite parts? Does she touch herself when she reads them, or does she think about them later when she’s in her bed?
My little innocent is not so innocent after all. How did I get this so wrong?
I’m still staring at her, drinking in the view. No, she is innocent. I’m convinced she’s never done any of these things, only read about them. But she wants to do them. If the rapid rise and fall of her chest is any indication, she wants to do them badly.
Standing, I take the coffee mug from her hands. She’s not too stable on her feet on level ground and lethal with hot coffee. “I think it best to dispense with the threat.” I smile, so she knows I’m teasing because her face is so serious.
I take her hand and pull her gently off of the couch. She’s so skittish that I begin to wonder if I’m reading this all wrong…until she leans up on to her tiptoes and brushes her lips against mine.
That’s all it takes, that faintest touch.
I’ve been thinking about those plump, red lips ever since she threw her coffee over me. I’ve tasted them once, in my office, but that wasn’t anywhere near enough. She’s wearing heels, but the top of her head still only reaches my shoulder. She’s tiny—petite. My hands slide from her hips downward so I can palm her ass. It’s a nice ass, and I admit I’ve already checked it out half a dozen times. It fits perfectly in my hands, and my squeeze is rewarded with her gasp.
I give it another squeeze, enjoying the feel, but my focus is locked on those gorgeous plump lips. I fist a handful of hair, tilt her head how I want it and lower my lips to hers.
Cherries, they taste like cherries, and I might have become an addict. They’re so soft, and I slide mine gently back and forth before pressing deeper and savoring her taste. I pull back, nipping gently on her lower lip, pulling it until it plops out, and diving straight back in. Her lips part, and I accept the invitation. She groans, her hands clutching at my shirt before reaching higher so she can tangle them in my hair.
I like her hands on me, touching me, tugging gently like she’s afraid of hurting me. Our tongues tangle, and I’m thinking we should take this somewhere more comfortable than the couch. I want to feel this ass without any clothing in the way.
She bites my lip back, little minx, and I give her hair a tug, and her soft moan undoes my self-control.
I pull back, and she gazes up at me, her pupils are so blown I can barely see the color.
Then she licks her lips.
I lower my lips to hers once more as I walk her backward into her bedroom.
It’s a small apartment, the living room barely big enough to fit a couch, a small coffee table, and an old TV. There’s a large bookshelf over on the far wall full of crime thrillers, so I’m guessing she keeps her romance books tucked out of sight. Maybe she has a secret stash of it somewhere? I break the kiss as we reach the bedroom and grin as I picture myself uncovering that naughty book bounty.
Maybe I’ll make her read the dirty parts to me while I’m eating her out?
As I flick the light on, she bites her lower lip.
“Could we—ah—”
She stops there. Emma doesn’t want the light on.
Tough.
I shake my head slowly. No way I’m missing this show.
Our gazes lock as I slowly tug open the first button on her blouse before leaning down to taste her lips. I take longer with each button and each kiss, deeper, rougher, and by the time the last one yields to my fingers, her lips are naturally pink and swollen, and there’s not a bit of the cherry lipstick left.
The cloth parts under my hands, and I slide it gently over her shoulders. It drops to the floor. Underneath is a bra in the same fuchsia pink. It’s nothing fancy, but there’s a tiny lace detail on the cups. I spread my fingers and run my palms over her torso, up and over her plump tits, then slide my thumb back and forth along that line of lace. She’s restless under my hands, but I’m too focused on my prize.
I press a kiss to each firm swell before palming them both.
Perfect.
I enjoy the weight of them in my hands. I’ve got big hands, and they don’t quite fill them, but they still look fucking perfect. My eyes lift; she’s staring back at me, biting her bottom lip again. Little tease.
Crouching before her, I help her slip her shoes off. Her hands settle on my shoulders to steady herself as I pop the button and ease her jeans over her hips. Underneath she’s wearing simple matching fuchsia panties and pressing my nose against them, I breathe deep.
“Oh,” she says like she’s not sure what to make of that. Grinning, I press a kiss against the pink cotton while filling my hands with her perfect ass. The jeans need to come off, and they do, slowly. I pause as the material gathers at her ankles, and help her pull her feet out one by one. I press another kiss to her panties; it feels smooth under my lips.
I’ve never met a woman that didn’t have perfect landscaping, but for some reason, it irritates me.
Maybe she likes the smooth sensation.
Or perhaps she’s done it for someone else. I have no right to judge. Thoughts like this don’t usually trouble me. I like fucking, and I like moving on. I don’t usually worry about who came before or after. No, I have never cared who came before or after.
For once, though, I do.
“Matt?” Even my name whispered from lips is like a slice of heaven. The word is hesitant because I’m pretty sure I just growled.
“I’m nervous,” she blurts out, and really I don’t think this woman could hit higher on the sweetness scale if she tried.
I stand. The bastard in me wants her to be nervous, but not in the way she is. I want her to be nervous that she’ll enjoy me choking her on my cock, but that’s not what’s happening.
I’m overwhelming her—it’s not arrogant on my part to admit that I do that to women sometimes. Which is why I tend to let them make the play.
Women who make a play for a man like me don’t suffer nerves, and we can get on to the hot sex, and part ways with no hard feelings.
Okay, so occasionally there are hard feelings—fucking a woman twice does not mean they can litter their social media with fictitious wedding plans. Seriously, what kind of crazy bitch does stuff like that?
I sigh as I stroke a finger over her soft cheek, and she melts into my touch. She’s experiencing a kind of stage fright. If I’m honest, I’m suffering stage fright myself, and I don’t know where the hell that is coming from. She’s worried that she’ll do something wrong, like that could ever happen. She’s hot, beautiful and about to be naked, it’s as uncomplicated as that. I’m pretty sure every man feels like he’s won the lottery at such a time.
But she can’t see inside my mind, and I doubt any words I could offer would do much to allay those concerns—sometimes you have to show not tell.
She needs to come hard and fast so we can both move on to the next stage. The one where I teach her all the wicked things I like.
Leaving is the sensible choice. She’s too sweet, too good, and I’m not close to being either. I’ll corrupt her—my dick is damn near breaking my zipper with how much he is on with that idea.
“I want you naked,” I say, to give her time to get used to the idea….and because it provides the perfect distraction to what she’s worried about.
Without me asking, she reaches to unclip her bra. It drops to the floor, but I don’t give the discarded material a second thought. Then the tiny pink panties are pushed over her hips.
She’s beautiful, and I need that taste.
Her head has lowered, but I tip her chin up as I finally get my hand on her naked ass to pull her body flush to mine. My kiss swallows the last of her gasp as I walk her backward a single pace to the bed. Lifting my lips, I press her down, coming over her until she props back on her elbows, and I’ve got free access to her tits. I palm one and close my mouth over the pebbled tip of the other.
A long moan escapes her lips as I twirl my tongue around her nipple—then I suck hard, and it turns into a strangled groan. I switch to the other side because all of this is perfect, and I’m having trouble choosing. But I’m on a mission, and I really need to taste her.
Shifting down, I spread her open. Her pussy is plump, and her clit is peeking and begging to be sucked.
“Ohmygod!” Her croaked words accompany the first swipe of my tongue. Small hands make fists beside her while her back arches off the bed. I’m not going for finesse. I just need to get her off.
Palm over her lower abdomen, I force her against the bed.
She doesn’t like being held down…she loves it.
“Nm…uh.” Is all she can offer as I begin tonguing her clit. The bud soon stiffens enough for me to enclose it in my lips.
I suck.
Her fingers clutch my hair. At first, I’m sure she intends to pull me off, but all she does is grip me tighter.
“Ohgod…it…I…ohgod!” Her words turn incoherent, as I get two fingers into her wet pussy.
She’s a wriggler. Her ass is trying to dance all over the place.
But she’s going nowhere and I don’t let up.
The moan as her climax unravels sends a concentrated shot of lust straight to my dick.
And I don’t stop because I’m confident she’s got more.
“Ohgod….please!”
She throbs under my lips, and her pussy makes wet noises as I pump my fingers in and out.
“I can’t!” Her head is thrashing against the bed, and her fingers shake where they’re tearing into my hair, but I don’t fucking stop.
“I…no…Oh!”
When she comes the second time, her pussy damn near crushes my fingers. I could get addicted to the sound of her coming—I think I might already be. It’s wild and uninhibited, and I want to pound my dick into that tight, wet heaven until she makes those sounds again.
When I lift my head, her lust-drunk eyes blink back at me. It’s impossible to keep the smug grin off my face, so I don’t bother trying. Instead, I kiss her, taking her lips in a hot, passionate kiss, and she opens to it. I could suggest any number of depraved things to her right now and receive her complete capitulation.
I bring the kiss to an end.
“Still worried?” I ask, and a pretty color burns a path down her cheeks and throat and across the upper swell of her breasts.
She shakes her head, no.
I grin, ready to move on to the part where I nail her into the bed until she screams, which is when my phone rings in the other room.
It’s late. I have it set to divert calls to voicemail at this time of night, except for my family—the ring tone is my sisters. “I need to get that,” I say.
A swift glance at my watch tells me it’s really late, and she wouldn’t call unless it was important. “It’s been a long week,” I say, shifting back and encouraging her with a gentle swat to her ass to get in the bed.
Standing, I swipe a hand through my messed hair. My dick is hard enough to drive nails, and I grimace as I adjust myself. I want to stay the night. But I never stay, and I’m conflicted, and I know if I get my dick inside her, once isn’t going to be enough.
And the phone is still ringing.
I need to think this through because clearly, I’ve not been thinking anything through since the day she left me with chest burns. “Get some rest,” I say, and I realize that I sound like a dick.
“Your phone,” she blurts, and I can tell that she’s confused. Wondering why I don’t either answer it or switch it off.
“I need to go,” I say, then I could kick myself because her face is open and vulnerable, and she’s taking this as a rejection, and that’s not my intention. I don’t want to go into the details of my sister’s situation now. “But tomorrow, I’m going to pick you up, and we can do stuff together. And after, I’m going to bring you home and fuck you into next week.”
Her gasp is priceless, blunt dirty talk is going to get me everything and anything with this woman.
“You up for that, Emma?”
My dick certainly is…and disappointed by my restraint, but all in good time.
“Yes,” she agrees softly.
Damn, I really need to get her to say ‘cock’ tomorrow while I’m fucking her, and my life will be complete. I smile as I press a kiss to the top of her disheveled head. “Get some rest,” I say as I ease off the bed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TEN
UNKNOWN NUMBER: SOMETHING has come up. Sorry, the weekend’s going to be a write-off. I’ll see you Monday. Matt.
I saved the number. There was a strange thrill in having it on my phone.
My whole body tingles thinking about what Matt did last night. I feel guilty about how soundly I slept afterward…and about him not getting any.
A giggle erupts as I remember him adjusting himself afterward with a grimace. I bite my lip because that’s wicked of me, but really, his expression was one of torture.
A blush engulfs my face as I make myself a coffee in the for-fox-sake mug. He deserves some ki
nd of medal for that performance. I didn’t know I was capable of coming twice like that. And even after, I still wanted more.
I’m not going to get anymore. I try not to let the disappointment consume me when I read the text message to say he can’t make it.
And I try not to read more into it either.
He probably has a million and one important things to do over the weekend, and he did give me the two best orgasms of my life, anything else is a bonus.
Only, I’m pretty sure those orgasms have ruined me, and getting the D would have been a million times worse. I was halfway in love with him before he turned my body into a molten mess.
It’s not love, I tell myself as I sip my coffee and stare out my kitchen window on to the neighboring block of apartments. There’s a scrubby tree growing between the two buildings, but someone’s ripped a couple of the lower branches off, and it’s in a sorry state.
Infatuation…an unhealthy kind of infatuation that I need to nip in the bud.
My thoughts turn to my mother, which is odd because I try not to think about her often.
She’s one of life’s great nomads, a wanderlust heart that’s always searching for a new thrill. When I was younger, I didn’t have a choice but to go with her.
It’s sad that the last five years since I moved out and started college have been the most stable of my life.
She seemed to be happy in the last message she sent. Had found a man and six months on, they’re still together, which is a record where my mother is concerned.
I love her, but it’s not the way one imagines a daughter-mother love should be. Her spirit isn’t conducive to bringing up a child. So many homes, so many new schools and friends, and so many men I called Uncle.
I know girls aren’t supposed to be commitment-phobes, but I kind of am, and it transcends every type of relationship. My mother needs a lot of friends, a lot of attention, I don’t need any. I don’t want any.
We’re nothing alike, and yet I can see elements of her in me. Which terrifies me. And I look like her, a walking replica, except my eyes—they belong to my daddy. At least that’s what she told me.
