Yes, yes I was.
His kiss was hot on my skin, and his fingers were busy and clever and I hadn’t come at all in weeks, and I needed pleasure, and surely if he could like this, if he could distract me with his mouth and tease my clothes off so skillfully I barely noticed, he would make me feel good.
And fuck, I just wanted him. Even drunk on his kisses, I knew that much was undeniable. Just physically, I was hot for him. My thighs were clenched and my sex was drenched, and he was just getting started.
Oh god, oh god.
I wanted this.
Right here, like this. It would be so fucking hot.
It would get him out of my system. Get me over him.
I let him kiss my shoulder blades, let him peel the stretchy white dress down over my hips until it fell around my feet, leaving me clad in nothing but bra and panties.
White as well.
But more lace than silk, because I liked feeling sexy, and it was fun to put on hot underwear for no reason at all.
Or maybe I’d subconsciously known this would happen and had dressed accordingly.
Either way, he broke away from kissing my back and shoulders, stood upright. “You’re a fucking goddess, Laurel. Look at you.”
I managed a cocky smirk. “I saw myself in the mirror this morning when I got dressed.”
He stood behind me, fingers at my spine. “Not like this, you didn’t.”
Pinched at my bra closure.
I arched away from his touch. “Ah-ah-ah.” I met his eyes in the mirror. “You want that off?” I jutted my chin at his reflection. “Shirt off, bub. This is a two-way street.”
He crossed his arms at his hips and peeled the shirt off. “Anything else? Or are we going tit for tat?”
I reached behind me and found the button of his shorts. “I can manage from there, I think.” I freed the button, tugged down the zipper, and the loose shorts dropped around his feet; he kicked them aside.
He let me fumble at his thighs, his waist, until I found the ridge of his erection.
Holy.
Mother.
Of all.
Fucks.
Titus Bright was a legend in the rock and roll world. There were urban legends about his backstage antics—multiple groupies at one time, pointing at girls in the front row and bringing them backstage. Inviting whole groups on his tour bus. Urban legends as well about his sexual prowess, his size, his stamina. There were photos of him, but of sketchy provenance, and grainy to boot. In LA, you’d meet someone whose friend had slept with him, and she would claim that his cock was just absolutely monstrous, and wouldn’t you know, he could fuck all night and never get tired.
It all seemed too ridiculous to be true. It had to be made up.
The moment I pressed my palm over his underwear-imprisoned member, I knew the stories of his size, if nothing else, were not only true, but possibly undersold the truth of him.
“Jesus,” I whispered, grasping at him, angling my hands behind me, fingertips down and flat against his belly, scraping down his thighs to push his underwear off.
“Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll take care of you.” He slid a strap off my shoulder, kissing over the skin just behind the slide of the strap. “Real, real good care.”
He chuckled. “Sweet thing, all you’ll feel is good. Promise.” He slid the other strap off, and then paused at the closure of my bra. “But first…I gotta get my hands on these babies.”
He pinched, loosed, and flung the garment forward and off. My breasts swayed free, bare, and I felt his cock, now partially bared against my backside, throbbed. “Fucking hell, Laurel. I’ve seen a fuckin’ shitload of tits in my life, but never…Jesus god, woman…I’ve never seen any as perfect as these.” He gingerly, reverently cupped his hands under my heavy breasts. “Are they real?”
I laughed. “Do they feel real?”
He rolled a nipple in his fingers; I watched, biting my lip as the zing of pleasure buzzed through me at his touch. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “All natural. I’ve had plastic surgery, but not to those.”
“Someday, we’ll play a game where I guess what you had done. But not right now.” He moved around in front of me, knelt. Gazed up at me. “Right now, I have other things in mind.”
The three-way mirror reflected him from three angles, and all I could see was him worshipping at the altar of my sex. His hands braced my hips, and he let out a harsh breath. As if he was attempting to drag out the moment of exposing my sex, but couldn’t hold out any longer.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of my underwear, which was every bit as sheer as my bra, so the white lace left very little to the imagination, revealing hints of my nether lips, teasing glimpses of the pink seam, the waxed plump lines pressing against the lace, which stuck damp to my skin, as desire seeped out of me.
I half expected him to rip the lace apart, and I’d have been pissed off if he had—this was one of my favorite sets, being that rare undergarment unicorn of comfortable and sexy.
Instead, he was gentle, almost delicate. Barely touching my skin as he slowly drew the lace down, stretching it over my hips and then dragging it down my thighs and to my feet. He cradled an ankle, lifted my foot, the other, and then plucked the panties away. I was naked, then, in a stranger’s home, a client’s home. Naked in front of a mirror that showed me from three angles, straight on and one side as well as the other.
Titus’s hands glided up my calves, caressed behind my knees. His eyes were fixed on mine, staring up at me from between the mounds of my breasts which swayed with my breathing. He sat back on his heels and let his gaze rake over me, now that I was fully nude.
“Good and holy goddamn, Laurel,” he breathed, and I couldn’t possibly mistake the awe in his voice. “You are too fucking perfect to be real.”
I laughed. “Liar. I appreciate the compliment, Titus, but I know for a fact you slept with Eliza Memphis, for one thing, and there’s no way I’m prettier than her.”
Eliza Memphis was one of the most sought-after women on the planet, who’d been featured in centerfolds of every magazine there was, and who’d starred in several very famous adult films before transitioning to mainstream acting, albeit still largely in roles which required little or no clothing; her body was also famously all-natural, and commonly referred to as the gold standard of female sexuality.
Titus’s eyes narrowed. “There’s one thing I do not ever fucking do, and that’s compare. Another thing I never ever fucking do is talk about anyone else I may have spent time with. You just did both.”
I frowned. “Um, sorry?”
His smile returned, hot and eager. “Just don’t do it again or I might have to punish you.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Not into that, sorry. Pretending that something I want you to do is a punishment is just stupid.”
“Who said you’d enjoy it?”
“If it’s something I won’t enjoy, why would I allow it?”
“Because you want me.” He stood up, naked, glorious, all hard muscle and masculine planes; he was not erect, but rather hung partially engorged, thick and long, but swaying and pointing downward. “You know I can make you feel good.”
“But you want me as much as you claim I want you. You’re going to deny yourself what you want...” I swiped a finger over my seam, ending at my clit, circling it once, gently, for his benefit, “this…just to punish me?”
He shrugged. “I have the discipline to do so, yes. I’d rather not, so maybe when I compliment you—and genuinely mean it, I should point out—just say thanks, and believe me, instead of playing coy bullshit games.” He closed in to tower over me, staring down at me, an arrogant smirk on his lips. “So, Laurel McGillis. Let’s try this again.”
I stood confident in my skin, desire making me bold. “Okay. Go for it.”
“Nope, you ruined my mojo.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t even remember what I was doing.”
I laug
hed. “What’s the matter, Titus? Drugs ruined your memory?”
He gave a derisive laugh. “Yeah, pretty much. I snorted away my short-term memory before I got sober. You’re gonna have to nurse me along so I don’t forget what I was doing.”
After Tommy’s death, he’d gotten sober and the only publicity he ever did was in support of sober living; his struggle had been with drugs, not alcohol, so he still drank, which caused a lot of talk in the various sobriety communities, but his point was that sobriety wasn’t necessarily an all or nothing prospect, but rather was personal and specific. He’d never had trouble stopping the drinking, whereas he’d only been able to cut off his cocaine usage after finding Tommy dead. He was famously open about his struggle and had recently gone so far as to be featured on a comedy roast, where his sobriety had been open for cheap potshots, with him laughing as loudly and genuinely as anyone else, and giving as good as he got.
My point being, joking about it wasn’t going to offend him.
“This is a weird hookup,” I said. “Stopping to talk before we’ve even gotten started.”
He shrugged. “Your own fault, babe. I’d be tongue deep in that pussy by now if you hadn’t said some dumb-ass shit.”
“So you do remember what you were about to do,” I said, smirking. “Caught you.”
He shrugged. “Hard to remember what I forgot.”
I laughed. “That makes no sense.” I reached for him. “Well, if you’re not going to get this show on the road, I will.”
I’d sworn off rock stars, after the incident with Jamison Flare. But…this was Titus Bright. And so far, his reputation was proving to be well-earned. Understated, if anything. The things he’d said…the way he’d looked at me. Touched me…I was willing to see this little tryst through, if only for the chance at an orgasm or two on the tongue of a man I’d…errr…daydreamed about, more than once.
He just grinned, lifted his chin even as his eyes flicked down to watch my hand clasp around his cock. “Be my guest.”
I turned him so I could watch us in profile in the straight-on mirror, so I could watch our reflection as I caressed his length. I felt him thicken in my hand, gently stroking him in slow, arrhythmic movements. I watched as he engorged in my hand, straightening to point away from his torso and then gradually lifting, tilting upward, upward, until he was standing vertical, straight against his belly, the tip of him just beneath his navel.
“There,” I said, letting go of him. “Now you’re ready to play.”
He brushed a thumb over my lips. “See, I was kinda hoping for something a little more than that.”
“Oh?” I couldn’t help but touch him; it was just such a beautiful, perfect cock, such heavy taut balls, such soft skin sheathing iron hardness. “And what would that be?”
His thumb tugged my lower lip down, and I played along, let him press his thumb over my lower teeth, slowly and gently but deliberately prying my mouth open. “This sassy mouth. I want to see if it feels as sweet wrapped around my cock as it tastes when I kiss it.”
“I see.” I caressed his sac, playing with the heavy delicate skin and the globes within. “I might need some incentive to do that, though. I don’t much care for the taste of penis, you see. It has to be worth my while.”
“You haven’t tasted mine,” he said. “I think you’ll like it.” His thumb ran over my chin, and then his fingertips trailed down my breastbone, pausing to feather over my right nipple, tweaking it; I gasped involuntarily—I wasn’t about to say so, but my nipples were highly, intensely sensitive and one of my most erogenous zones. “How about I give you a little preview of how I’ll make it worth your while? Just so you know I’m…generous. That I’m devoted to making sure you have as much fun as I do, you might say.”
I let go of his erection and caught at his shoulders. Pulled down. “Enough talk. Get down there and put your mouth where your money is.”
He laughed and let me push him to his knees in front of me once again. Instead of diving right in, though, he traced a finger over my seam. I trembled, wondering how he could know I liked to be built up to orgasm, that I responded to light, slow touches better than rough, fast ones. How could he know? He shouldn’t. But he did.
He just slid that one finger down my seam, back up. Leaned in, pressed a slow hot breathing kiss to the keyhole at the top of my sex. His tongue flickered against me, there. Briefly, so lightly it was almost nothing at all. Then away, and his finger brushed down again, this time teasing in, just slightly, delving between the lips up to the first knuckle.
“So soft,” he breathed. “So wet.”
“You make me wet,” I murmured, the words tumbling unbidden from me. “So fucking wet.”
He slid that one finger in, gathering upward and withdrawing slicked in my essence. He licked it, eyes closing on a groan as he stuck his finger into his mouth and slurped it clean.
“Fuck the games,” he growled, eyes wrenching open and fixing on me, suddenly fierce and wild. “If you taste like that, I’ll eat you out until you beg me to stop.”
I laughed breathlessly. “Never gonna happen, but go ahead and try, champ.”
“Challenge accepted,” he muttered. “Better find something to hold on to.”
His tongue slithered against me, and I realized he was indeed done playing around. He’d been teasing me, testing me before. And now he was ready to devour me in earnest.
And holy fuck, did he devour me.
He was hungry for me, mad with it. Skilled, as well. He knew his way around my pleasure as if he’d been given blueprints to my orgasm. He gripped my hips and held me in place, slathering his tongue against me, and within a few swipes had me shaking, had me gasping.
Then, as I began to whimper from the ecstasy of his tongue against my clit, he wrapped a hand around my ass and pulled me against him, and his other hand dove up between my thighs and he pressed a finger into my opening, curled inside me, drew out. Then two fingers, up and in and curling. Withdrawing.
I gasped at the intrusion, and so he did it again.
Three fingers, then, and that was the most I could accept, and those three fingers curled in and pulled away, toward himself, against the upper inner wall of my sex. Stroked me there, slowly, as his mouth worked at my lips and my throbbing, thickening clitoris.
I had my hands in his hair, tangled in his tight curls, pulling him against me, shamelessly urging him on. I didn’t have to beg him to keep going—I knew he wouldn’t stop until I’d found my release.
He chased my orgasm relentlessly, as if it was his only purpose in life.
He got me there in record time, and I rose to the brink, hips flexing against his mouth and riding his stabbing, curling fingers.
“Oh fuck—Titus, god, yes!” I gasped, shrill and shaking.
He just continued his assault, three long thick strong clever fingers cleaving my sex open and massaging within me and slicing in and out in fast rhythm, his tongue circling me, head swiveling to add speed and force.
I came, spasming hard, crying out, hips rocking forward against his mouth, my whole body shaking, back arched and head thrown backward, a scream ripping out of me.
I expected him to stop, then.
To stand up and push me to my knees and take his reward.
I’d have gladly, willingly done so.
He slowed his movements until I relaxed the tense, taut flex of my hips and stood with tremulous knees in front of him, sagging, gasping. His mouth, his lips, his beard were smeared with me, and his grin was self-satisfied. I thought that was it.
But he’d taken my words as a challenge, and clearly Titus Bright didn’t back down from a challenge.
He stared at me, watched me with that cocky grin on his face, and when I’d caught my breath, he began again. Slowly. Just his mouth. And when I began to rise up into nascent climax again, he added a finger, then two, then three…
I lost track of everything, after that.
How long he knelt between my thighs.
Who I was.
Where I was.
All I knew was his mouth and his fingers, his tongue and his lips and his touch, skillfully, masterfully bringing me to climax and over the edge with screaming abandon, keeping me there until I couldn’t breathe to even scream before letting me topple down the other side…only to start over again, each time with less of a chance to recover between. Until I was shaking helplessly, until my cries of orgasm became desperate weeping shattered sobs.
Until the thought of coming yet again nearly ached, nearly hurt.
And, indeed, I did beg him to stop, finally.
“Titus,” I gasped, fingers knotted in his hair. “Stop, fuck, stop, I can’t take anymore. I can’t—I can’t—I can’t breathe. Fuck, Titus, fuck. Stop.” I stared down at him, and my eyes were hazy, blurred—he’d made me come so hard, so many times I was literally crying helplessly. “You win, okay? Jesus, you…you fucking win.”
He backed away—rolled to sit on his feet. I swayed, balance evaporated in the boiling heat of countless wrenching orgasms. He reached up, caught me. “Hold on to me,” he murmured, guiding my hands to his head, his shoulders.
I held on.
I couldn’t breathe, still, couldn’t think, could barely manage to keep my legs under me. I watched with befuddled, mind-numbed confusion, in a drunken stupor, as he reached for his shorts and dug a hand in a pocket, came out with something.
He grabbed my hand and supported me as he stood up. Moved behind me.
I heard foil ripping.
Felt his hand moving, sheathing himself. Part of me knew what he was doing, but the rest of me was just…shattered into incoherence, into stupefied dizzy shaking wonder, numb with ecstasy, drunk on bliss, high on the wild sexual release of an intensity I hadn’t known was even physically possible.
Laurel's Bright Idea (Billionaire Baby Club Book 3) Page 6
