Deserving It
Page 6
He flicks a thumb against both. And that heady heat shoots through me again, from my nipples down to where I’m starting to ache for him.
I gasp and arch forward, giving him better access for the boob-flicking, because OMG. He caresses and circles the tips, working them into tight, hardened points. And boy, does that do it for me. I scrape my nails across his nipples, and he bucks under me.
Then his hot hands are back at my waist, his grip sure and strong, and he’s dragging me up, my core rubbing deliciously across his hard abs on its short journey.
Conor’s eyes are hooded and glazed with lust. When he’s pulled me close enough, he latches his mouth around a nipple and sucks hard. I jerk against him, as if zapped by electricity. Heat rockets through me, flushing my skin.
Shit. Wow. This reaction is unusual for me. Usually I just feel a pleasant hum. If I’m lucky. Sometimes I don’t feel much of anything at all, except a desire to please. But this? I’m like a live wire that he’s playing with, and I’m just a jerky ball of need. And want.
And I ache.
Who is this person?
If most people feel this all the time when they have sex, no wonder everyone’s always after some.
He pulls away, then curls his tongue out and flicks my other nipple, and I’m squirming, aching for him to tug and suck, not tease. But he keeps flicking and circling, which winds me up, yes, but also isn’t quite enough. And he knows it. I can see the battle in his gaze—wanting to tease me to draw out my pleasure but also wanting to give us what we both want. Now.
Then he flips us over, bumping us against the cushioning of the overgrown footrest. His eyes are pools of heat and want, and I’m sure I’m reflecting back the same.
“Conor,” I whisper.
Fuck, I want this guy bad. Always have. Maybe that’s why other guys haven’t really turned my crank—they weren’t him.
He shifts to the side, his free hand skimming down my stomach. His hooded gaze follows his exploring hand, as if feel is not enough—he has to see too. The rough tip of a finger circles the skin around my belly button, and then he trails his fingers down my skin. All the tiny hairs over every inch of my skin, I swear to God, are now standing at attention. My breath catches and releases.
His fingers bump into the elastic of my panties. Skim back and forth, tracing the bare, sensitized skin bordering the edge, and it’s as if all that skin is brand-spanking new, feeling touch for the first time. His touch.
His gaze flips to mine. Even though I was pretty clear with the I want you thing, he seems to be checking in again. Which I appreciate. Which makes him all the hotter.
“Please,” I gasp.
His eyes flare, and he edges those warm fingers under the elastic, skimming, brushing. He probes through my trim curls until he reaches where I’m dying for him. His focus returns to his hand, and I watch—fascinated—as his arm muscles bunch and flex with the motions of his fingers. He gently plays with my clit, teasing it into a plumper, harder nub, and now I’m thrashing my legs, cuz Jeez.
Then—oh—he dips a blunt finger down and presses it inside, just a tad, finding me wet, and back up to my clit, slicking the evidence of my arousal around my swollen nub.
I shudder. “Conor.”
“Ah Jaysus, you’re so beautiful,” he rasps. “Feckin’ gorgeous.”
“More.” I arch against his hand. “Harder.”
He obliges, circling my clit and dipping, adding two fingers on the next venture.
I’m restless, and I want. But in order for me to be tough, I have to also be in control, and while I’m enjoying his ministrations, it’s making me panic and second guess myself.
And since he’s on his side, balancing the whole of his weight on an elbow, I’m easily able to flip him onto his back.
He chuckles and grasps my waist. “I was just getting started, yeah.”
“And now I want to get started.” I smile and ease down his body, and his eyes widen, hope and heat flaring in them.
Chapter 10
Claire
One of Conor’s hands clutches my shoulder, holding on, but the other slaps the edge of the couch as I edge down his body, my lips brushing down his torso. His fingers curl around the cushion and grip, as if he’s gotta hold on. Playing cards cascade down and bounce onto the floor.
The scent of our arousal fills the room, mixing with the strawberry aroma of the candles. And because the power outage knocked out the A/C, a light sheen of sweat films our flushed skin.
When my lips reach his belly button, I graze it with the flat of my tongue. His whole body tenses.
But his grip remains on my shoulder and the couch, and he doesn’t push.
I trace one of the V’s angling down to his magnificent package. And then along the other seam. He tastes clean and salty and delicious. Mmmm. I take a moment to savor the flavors on my tongue.
God, whenever he was shirtless on the field and reached up to stretch, or run his hand through his hair, I saw this V, and I was always dying, dying, to do this. Lick it. Learn the different flavors of his skin on my tongue. Explore where it led. And now… I’m doing it.
His engorged cock lies heavy against his stomach, as if the V perfectly frames it.
I touch my tongue to the thick base and lave up its length to the tip. He pushes up his hips, his ab muscles tightening with the movement and his tension.
“Fuck, loveen,” he gasps.
I lick the hood and then along the crease, lapping up the pre-cum. I cradle his balls, playing their delicate weight between my fingers, and then grip the base of his cock. I watch his reactions, adjusting my grip, and tug. He’s more sensitive than I’m used to—the slightest pressure makes him curse and tense and shudder.
Jesus, that’s hot as hell. My core clenches, aching for his fullness. I shift, lift his cock, and swallow the first inch and suck back up. Normally, I don’t find giving head enjoyable—it’s just something I do to please my bed partner. I might like to be in control, but I’m not selfish with my bed partners. And while that’s all well and good, it doesn’t usually turn me on.
Until now. And it’s clear from his reactions that he’s enjoying it. I discover a rhythm with my hand and mouth that elicits the most vocal reaction—the word “fuck” coming out on a soft grunt every time I suck back up to the tip.
And for the first time, I find myself wanting to make him come in my mouth. Normally, I don’t let that happen.
On the next suck, my mouth is suddenly empty of him. What—?
I’m airborne. Conor’s hands are clamped around my waist, dragging me up, and I slap my palms against the soft nap of the carpet to get balance. He arches up and hungrily starts kissing the hell out of me. I’m kinda draped randomly against him, so I readjust until I’m gliding my core up and down his length, the wetness from my mouth and from my panties quickly soaking the fabric. The rhythm matches the mating of our tongues.
Unable to wait any longer to feel him against me, I rest my weight on one hand, lift up, and grab the elastic of my underwear. But before I can remove them, his hand is there, and he grips the fabric. He tugs, jerking my hips to the side. He grunts, yanks again, and a tearing sound fills the room.
Holy shit. He just ripped my panties off.
I thought that only happened in books.
“Tell me you have a condom,” I ask.
“Yeah. Rucksack. Side pocket. Inside an Altoids tin.”
I push upward and slap around behind me. A hand cups my breast, and I’m patting around more urgently. I spy a dark pile of clothing on top of his duffel, and I drag it toward me. I shove the clothes off and search in his side pocket.
All the while, his hands are busy massaging my breasts or pressing against my clit and circling. Which is making my body shake and vibrate and my search harder.
Where is—? I pull the duffel onto his belly, blocking his access to me.
“Whatcha!” he grumps.
“You want to get it on, don’t you?”
> “Fuck, yeah.”
I laugh. “Then patience, big boy.”
I snag the tin and shove the duffel to the side. He grabs it from my hands, flicks it open, and pulls out a foil. He rips it open and fishes out the condom. I move my hips to free him, but I also snatch the condom away.
I want to roll it on myself.
“You like taking charge, do you now?” he says on a laugh.
I don’t answer, I’m too focused on my goal: sheathing his hard girth. And getting him inside me.
When he’s completely covered—God, he’s huge—I brace my hands on his muscular chest. I look up at him.
“Ready?”
“C’mere to me,” he groans.
He grabs hold of himself, and I let the fat tip edge inside. We both tense and pull in a sharp breath.
With how much the crown is stretching me, it confirms that he’s going to be the biggest guy I’ve ever taken inside me. A dull ache pounds there, screaming to allow his hot length to spread me wide, to feel all of him inside me.
But I want to control this encounter. It’s the first, and maybe the only time, I’ll feel Conor fill me. All this masculine hotness. And even if somehow we do this again, this will always be the first time.
And so I don’t want to rush. I want to feel his texture, feel his heat, feel the stretch, feel him fully seated.
It’s like my first bites of food when I sit down for a meal. I want to savor it. Savor him.
I shudder and push down an inch, and holy fucking God, the exquisite molten slide is whoa. My inner muscles contract and relax, trying to accommodate him, and the stretch is almost painful. Almost. And so it’s also so so delicious.
Conor’s head is thrown back, his neck muscles stretching, his biceps bunching and flexing as he grips my hips, his fingers digging into me, but restraining from pushing me down fully like he obviously wants to.
I drag upward, the friction making me tremble. The truth is, he’s so huge, I need adjustment time, but God, the friction is making me antsy, the ache inside now a greedy throb.
I suck in a deep breath, readjust my knees, and just go for it. I impale myself fully down, and he bows upward. “Fuck!”
I still, gasping sharply. His hands dive into my hair, and he’s kissing me as I feel him thicken. I still can’t move because, ohmygod, but the sensation of him seated fully inside me is unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
The hollow ache that was waiting to be filled is not satisfied—it’s now urging me to move. I grip his shoulders, and, still kissing, I slide up and back down. He groans into my mouth.
Soon my movements are so frantic we can’t kiss anymore without injury, and I throw my head back, all of my consciousness zeroed in on how he feels inside and against me—the heat, the friction.
Holy shit. A rare, sex-induced orgasm barrels toward me, making me desperate to grab it.
But before it can overtake me, he pushes me onto my back. Pulls out, and thrusts back into me.
“Yes!” But damn, I hope that wasn’t my last chance at that orgasm. An orgasm with Conor.
I grip his athletic ass—God, he has such a firm ass—and urge him deeper on each thrust.
On the next plunge, he arches up, whips his arms behind him, and grabs my wrists. The strength required to basically do a plank above me? Whoa.
Inside me, his girth is hot and thick, my blood pounding in my ears and in my clit. He puts my hands over my head, holding them both in one of his, while his other arm draws up one of my legs, looping it over his forearm.
“Holy shit,” I gasp as he drags out and slams inside me even deeper. He pounds into me, and even though he has my wrists constrained above my head, I’m so lost in the feeling of him moving inside me, I don’t care that he’s taken control.
All the while, his mouth is ranging over every inch of skin he can reach, pattering me with kisses and tiny bites and curses.
That orgasm that was just out of reach before, the one I was desperately chasing because of its rarity, blasts through me with no warning, the tug and bliss and heat so powerful, I actually scream out his name.
I’m jerking, the aftershocks causing me to buck and writhe against him. He releases my wrists, thank God, and I latch them around his torso and hold on as he drives into me with more urgency.
And…whoa another orgasm builds. Am I a greedy person for wanting it too before he finds his pleasure?
I’ve never had a double orgasm from sex.
I grab his ass, urging him onward, greedily grinding him into me. He shifts the angle of his hips, rising partway up but somehow making his pubic bone press against me with each thrust. His whole body is one giant hunk of tension and muscle and maleness as he pumps into me. He does a little twist of his hips, and that gluttonous part of me is like fuck yes, because I explode in another searing orgasm.
Holyshitholyshitholyshit.
He thrusts inside once more, holds still, and because I’m like a stretched glove around his thick hardness, I can feel him kick inside me with his release.
Oh wow.
He drags out slightly, pushes in again, and I clamp down on him tightly, my body still wracked with aftershocks. He collapses on top of me shuddering, his breaths sawing in and out near my ear. Mine is too. Our hearts are beating so hard, I can feel its thumps everywhere we’re touching. Every. Where. Even deep inside.
We’re slick with sweat, and I’m holding on to him tight, my mind blissed out as I slowly piece myself back together.
Holy shit.
What was that?
Oh, just hot-as-sin sex with fucking Conor McDaid. I skim my hands all over his slick skin and try to get my breathing under control. Outside, it’s prematurely dark from the storm, the rain drubbing against the windows in spurts, as if being thrown against it over and over. The candles are still alight, their flickering shadows playing across the ceiling.
“I must be crushing you,” he groans.
He rolls to the side, taking me with him. I let him and snuggle up against his chest, unwilling to leave the moment. Because when I do, reality will return, and I really, really love this unreality.
Wow.
My breathing calms, and I keep my head on his chest, savoring this moment until it inevitably ends.
Chapter 11
Claire
We’re mostly cooled off, though the room’s still muggy from lack of A/C and our, er, exertions. Our heart rates have returned to normal, and it’s…nice. Good nice. We’re comfortable, and we’re not feeling awkward. At least, I’m not.
A ringing sound jolts us.
Conor groans. “My mobile is bleeding after me.”
“Can you let it ring?”
“That’s the tone for work.”
The way he says it, I know he can’t let it go to voice mail, so I ease off him. He levers up and snatches his jeans, fishing out his phone.
“Yeah?”
His body stiffens. He stands and strolls to the kitchen, holding the phone to his ear and listening to whatever bad news he’s getting. He’s not saying anything, but his body language says it’s not good.
His hand tunnels into his dark red hair and clenches.
“And wasn’t I telling Steven himself that code needed looking at again. Too many bugs showing up in the initial testing of it.” His accent thickens as his frustration mounts.
Another pause.
“Yeah. I’m on it.”
He ends the call. “Fucking hell. Ain’t that a savage dose.” He marches into the bathroom, and the toilet flushes. He comes back out sans-condom and calls someone else.
I’m feeling exposed, lying on the floor. The post-coital buzz has definitely packed up and vamoosed.
Since it’s evening, I pad into the bathroom and clean my face and brush my teeth. Then I don my sleepwear, the fresh scent of the detergent we used today filling my nose as I pull the T-shirt on over my head.
Holy shit. It hits me. I just had sex with Conor McDaid. Hot, sweaty, oh-my-God sex.
As I’m having a mild freak-out, he’s pacing in the living room in all his naked glory, but he’s in full Alpha mode, making one phone call after another, barking out orders, giving some a hard time, others he’s apologizing for the unexpected problem, whatever it is. It’s all tech speak.
I locate my tablet and stay in my bedroom to give him a semblance of privacy, but I can’t focus on one word of the ebook I’m currently reading. He marches back and forth and so becomes visible through the doorway for a brief moment, and I keep looking up, as if my body has an internal timer tuned to when he’ll appear.
I’m struck by the change in him. He’s back to his non-smiling self, and it’s a weird juxtaposition. This guy pacing in the living room—all take-charge and serious—is not the flirting, carefree man who was just inside me. This guy…this guy feels like a stranger.
A flutter of panic builds in my chest at how take-charge he is. How good he is at it.
Then I catch myself—because that doesn’t matter. We’re just having fun while stuck together during a storm, and while he’s fulfilling every fantasy I had about him, I need to remember that this won’t work—we won’t work—when we return home.
Before, when he was my secret crush, it was easy for me to be smug about my strength. It wasn’t being tested.
But now that I’ve been with him? And it was the hottest sex I’ve ever had? How can I keep my walls intact if we actually date? I’ll get attached. I’ll want to morph to please him. I’ll want everything.
Conor
What a bleeding mess.
I left the coding team in good shape for the next phase of testing the new app. I met with each team member, set expectations, deliverables, fucking deadlines, and made contingency plans.
Then Steven drove it arseways by doing a piss-poor review of the code segment he was in charge of.
I hang up from the last call.
I find myself in a hotel room, naked, staring at a darkened window as rain is pissing against the glass pane. And it takes me a second to zero in on where I am and why I’m feckin’ naked.