My thoughts abandon me as his fingers undo his shirt’s buttons, inch after inch of chest falling victim to my eyes. In his suit he commanded respect with his strong words and unyielding eyes. Without a shirt he has my full attention, a perfect build unveiled as his shirt falls to the floor. I pull my eyes from his chest and return to his face, seeing the set of his jaw, the intensity of his eyes. Then there is the yank of a zipper, and my eyes drop.
He is magnificent, every line and muscle defined, framing a package that makes my mouth and sex water. This is the organ that I have already experienced, the one that has kept me awake at night and ended many self-pleasure sessions. I swallow as he strides over and stops before me, his eyes studying me carefully, his hand reaching out and pressing me back, ‘til I lay flat before him on top of the table.
His hands touch my legs, lifting them and tugging them outward, and I am spread wide before him. He bends, his hands on my ankle, his fingers unstrapping my heel, a loud thud sounding when the platform stiletto hits the floor. Then he moves to the other shoe, my foot lifting under his hand when it is free. He grabs an ankle in each hand and places my feet flat on the table, knees pointing to the ceiling.
“Touch yourself,” he rasps, stepping back and watching me, his hand settling on and gripping his cock, which juts out, swollen and hard. The knowledge that I’ve caused that reaction, that his touch on my skin aroused him, is powerful; the vision of him stroking his cock is carnal in its exquisiteness.
I close my eyes and attempt to relax. Attempt to ignore my open legs, the view on display for the three men in the room. I touch myself tentatively, my finger sliding up and down the slit of my sex, gentle strokes that tease the sensitive skin.
“Is that what you like?” I flinch at his voice, which is closer than I expected, right beside me. I open my eyes and turn to the sound, seeing him above me, his eyes on my moving hand, his own hand moving up and down his delicious shaft.
I nod. “Initially, yes.”
“Keep going.”
I close my eyes again, my fingers never pausing in their travels, moisture collecting between my lips, my fingers grazing hot liquid as they move slowly and leisurely over the edge of my sanity. I allow one finger to dip in, to test my readiness, and drag some of that moisture higher, to the sensitive bud that is my pleasure center, circling the skin gently. I release a low moan, the building pleasure too great to contain, and arch my back, lifting slightly off the table as my fingers dance lightly through a torturous tease.
My pussy is beginning to respond, to flex and pant, saliva dripping from its eager lips. I can feel my clit taking attention, hardening beneath my gentle swipes, each circle moving a little closer. I am a sadistic bitch when it comes to masturbation, and my body loves me for it. I give until it wants and then I withdraw, coaxing my arousal out only to deny it. It isn’t until it begs, isn’t until it screams for mercy that I will allow it release, the explosion sweeter and more intense the longer I fuck with its mind.
I am reminded of my situation by teeth. Gentle scrapes of teeth against my nipples, first one, and then the other. He covers my nipples, sucking them into the heat of his mouth, his tongue dancing over the rough path of his teeth, my hand reaching up and grabbing his head, gripping that delicious mess of hair and bringing his head harder on my breasts, the sensation too incredible not to savor.
He grips my wrist roughly, yanking my hand off of his head and shoving it back between my legs, his message clear. I moan in frustration, stopping the sound when his mouth returns, visiting my other breast, the combination of soft mouth and hard teeth driving me wild.
“I’m close,” I gasp, my sex contracting and screaming for release, my clit one swipe away from explosion. His mouth moves between my breasts, his fingers replacing his tongue, dragging slowly and softly over my nipples, gentle and light enough to make them arch for more. His mouth, that incredible, hot machine of ecstasy, moves, traveling into the curves of my neck, and all I can think about is how it would feel between my legs.
“Come,” he orders, his mouth lifting off my skin, one of his hands gripping my face and turning it to his, his blue eyes capturing mine and holding me hostage. “Come,” he repeats, need blatant in his taunt, strong face.
I try to keep the eye contact, try to give him what I think he wants, but it is too strong — that final moment that my clit has been waiting for, that perfect swipe across its swollen surface has my eyes rolling back, my world temporarily going black, his green eyes disappearing from sight as my back arches and I explode in
one.
perfect.
moment.
CHAPTER 7
I am weak, drained, my body losing all muscle function as the last tendrils of pleasure gently fade away, aftershocks twitching my body. I should be doing something sexy, like sucking or jacking or fucking that beautiful cock. But instead I am lying on the hard ass table and celebrating the incredibleness that was that orgasm.
“Get up and get on the bed in the master. I’m going to fuck the hell out of you.” His voice is hoarse with need, hard breaths in between the sentences, the order almost a plea despite the command in his tone.
I move, my limbs sluggish and irritable, my orgasm party cut short. My brain tries to process his words, tries to remember where the master bedroom is. I am aided by his hands, pushing me through the kitchen, down a short hall and into the first doorway, my bare feet hitting thick carpet as my eyes adjust to darkness with a rainbow of a thousand city lights stretched before me.
My body is spun by his hands until I face him, the lights reflecting in his eyes, his mouth finding mine, his hands gripping my waist and lifting me up and outward, until the soft bed is beneath me and he is above me, the thick length of him stiff and heavy against my thighs. I part my legs, his body settling between them, his mouth taking my throat, soft kisses alternating with delicate feedings of my flesh, his tongue teasing and torturing the hollows of my neck.
He grinds against me, his hand reaching down and placing his cock upward between our bodies, its hard shaft heavy between my legs, every thrust of his pelvis creating delicious friction on my sex. He lifts his mouth from my neck, hovering above my mouth and changes the pace, kissing me softly and deeply as he slides his bare cock over me. I gasp against his mouth, an ache between my legs growing, the tease of his shaft driving me wild, every withdrawal thrust giving me hope that he will move it two inches lower and bury it inside of me.
I, despite my ridiculous stripper standard of abstinence, have had plenty of partners; my college career littered with drunken hookups and failed relationships. The one-night-stand experience and I are old acquaintances, having shared three or four awkward experiences. One-night stands have, in my experience, always been disastrous, two strangers fumbling through motions while trying to convince each other that they are having timeoftheirlife sex. This is something else entirely.
This is electricity, sizzling between our bodies and creating heat of intense need. There is, at this point in time, no going back. If he changes his mind, pulls off of my body, I will tackle him to the ground and take his cock. I am ravenous, my body crying out for his, my mouth, fingers and skin itching for his touch, for his domination. What he demands, I will freely give, his orchestration of our sex uncontested. I don’t want to battle with him, I want to pour out my body for him to use in any way he sees fit. I have tasted submission to him and love the release of control and how it feels.
He pulls off of me, disappearing for a brief moment, only to return, his hands rolling over his cock, shielding it with a thin skin of latex. I lay back, my fingers where his shaft had previously been, my sex begging for stimulation, needing a release that will only be sweet enough if he participates. My eyes devour him as he climbs onto the bed, positioning himself between my legs, his eyes on mine.
“Tell me what you want.”
I don’t respond and he grips my legs, pulling me to him, my legs and body open to him, his hands pushing mine away. He
brushed his stiff head over my swollen lips, watching my eyes. I take a quick breath, the tease of his head too much, the look in his eyes even more of a turn-on. Possessive, dominating, with a fire behind them that both terrifies and electrifies me. He knows what I want, what I need. But I love this look in his eyes, the raw need and the demand in their intensity. If withholding my response lights that fire, then I want to drag it on as long as humanly possible.
He leans forward, grips the back of my neck and lifts me towards him, ‘til my face is beneath his, his hot breath on my lips. “Tell me,” he spits out.
I resist, my eyes glued to his, my body swooning when he presses his thick tip against my soaked opening. My eyes shutter close, the pending sensation too good not to savor. Another inch, shoved firmly in, another quick intake of breathe. Holy hell. My body reacts to his in a way I’ve never experienced. His firm grip, tangled in my hair, grounds me — his cock causes me to soar to unnatural planes, satisfying a carnal need I never knew I could have.
“Tell. Me.” He orders, his mouth against mine, close enough to touch, but just enough space to torture. He withdraws slowly, causing me to moan in anguish.
“You,” I whisper against his mouth.
“Louder.”
“You,” I say stronger, spelling out the word as our eyes meet. “Your cock. Now. Please.”
He thrusts fully, my body crying in joyous celebration as I get to experience all of him, his hard shaft causing my eyes to shut and head to fall back against his hand. I grab his shoulder, gripping the strength of him, wanting to be close to him as he withdraws. Then thrusts. Then withdraws. Long slow fucks in which my body memorizes his shape, contracts around his girth, and worships his stroke. During these minutes, he owns me, regardless of the money or the orders. I am fully and completely his.
I wrap my legs around his strong body, my heels digging into his perfect ass as he increases his pace, the slick sounds of our bodies mixing with hot breaths and rough kisses. He kisses like he will never get enough, feasting on my mouth while maintaining a fluid rhythm with his body, propping himself off of me with one hand while the other hand cradles my neck, holding me up to him.
I can’t take much more of this, the furious pace building an animalistic need inside of me, a need that will only be fulfilled when I come. It is close, my core pulsing around his cock, our kiss interrupted by my gasp, my whimper as my entire body tenses underneath his.
“Don’t. Stop.” I beg, bucking backwards against his hand, my head rolling as the buildup reaches an overflow point, my orgasm on the edge of explosion. He releases my head, bracing both hands on the bed and unleashes the full force of his cock, quick, fast thrusts that are perfect in rhythm, perfect in speed, and heavenly on my body. I risk a look upward, at the god above me, his body framed by city lights, his face determined and intense, the muscles of his chest and arms emphasized by the position, the overall package too much. The orgasm rips through me, tearing out sensibility and logic and barriers on its path, my body tensing underneath him, my heels gripping him tightly and I wildly reach out, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him to me, the movement doing nothing to slow the fuck, my orgasm stretched out with every pump of his muscular hips.
He doesn’t give me time to rest, rolling with me until I am on top, dizzy with lust, staring down on the beauty that is BlueEyes.
“Ride me.” Dark, dangerous words, spoken with an edge.
I move, grinding my hips against him, a rolling motion that creates friction on my clit.
“No. Up and down.” He scowls at me, the expression doing nothing but making whatever vibe he rocks more devastating. I move my feet underneath me, resting my weight on my feet and move, lifting up and then down, feeling him respond inside of me, his shaft thickening and straightening, a slight twitch in its movement. I groan at the sensation, the stiff rod slick and hard inside me, filling my sex with every downward path. I settle fully down, the depth surprising me, the complete fullness something I can’t remember ever experiencing. His hands reach out, gripping my waist and holding me down, thrusting slightly from below, my mouth opening slightly at the new sensation, my glazed eyes held by his, a cocky smile crossing his face. He pins me against him and moves both of us upward, sliding along the bed until he is propped against the headboard and supported by pillows, sitting half up, the change affecting the angle, a delicious effect that has me shivering in pleasure.
“Fuck me.” His words are strong, his eyes locked with mine, his smile dropping slightly as need overtakes his features.
I move, sliding up and down in hard bounces, the impact eliciting a smile from him, a nod of approval. I move my hands to my breasts, the movement familiar, one I do on a nightly basis during a lap dance. I lift the weight of them, squeezing them against my skin and am surprised by the change in his face. He sits fully up, knocking my hands to the side; my vertical movement temporarily paused by the action.
Moving swiftly, he grips my wrists, pinning them behind my back and transferring them to one hand. I pull with my hands, unable to free them and frown, his face now level with mine, inches away. I lean forward, trying for a kiss, wanting to calm whatever storm I have awakened, but he pulls back. “Keep riding,” he rasps.
The new position forces me to my knees, my feet sliding beneath me. I obediently continue, my inner stretch indicating that my unknown foul in no way affected his arousal. He grips my wrists harder, using them as resistance, my fucks turning shallower as I move to the position he seems to want, my back arched to allow my hands to travel lower, my breasts now offered to him, his breath becoming ragged as I continue a hard rhythm on his cock.
“Perfect,” he groans, holding my wrist tightly, that hand now at my ass, a firm finger escaping from the cluster of hands and pressing on the exposed pucker between my cheeks. “You are fucking perfect.”
A compliment. I fight to hide my surprise, warmth spreading through my body at the words. It seems that, since the moment he walked into my life, I have second-guessed my movements, my touches, my appeal. The words give me renewed confidence and I continue riding him, a gasp escaping me when his mouth lowers to my breasts.
That thing he does, that alternation of teeth and tongue — it has a stronger effect than before, my entire body at a new, ungodly level of arousal, the buds of my breasts sensitive and crying out for the attention he lavishes with his mouth. His finger moves deeper, pressing gently on my ass until it is given entrance, the tightness causing him to swear against my breasts, the added sensation causing me to tremble.
“I can’t — I’m about to…” my warning isn’t going to occur in time, my orgasm impatient, seizing my body in a full attack, my legs going dumb from the assault, pleasure rippling through me even as alarms warn me to keep moving, danger of weakening this orgasm ahead.
He takes over, pants coming as he fucks me from below, thrusting in and out as he holds my body still with his hands, his finger in my ass gripping slightly as I come apart in his hands, a cry ripping out of my throat, animalistic in its strength.
I think he’s coming also, grunts coming from deep within his throat, his upward thrusts hard and fast, pounding and shaking my entire body with their strength. He releases my wrists, gripping my waist with both hands and forcing my body into action, pulling me up and down in rhythm with his strokes, until he roars, a primal bellow of ownership and conquer, his strokes slowing as the sound fades from his throat, wildness in his eyes, his mouth taking mine as his hips slow, his arms wrapping tightly around my body and holding me solidly against him. He marks me as his, strokes of his tongue speaking clearer than words ever could, ragged breaths coming from both of us as our mouths separate, and then reconnect, him tasting me fully as his cock softens inside of me. Then he pushes against my chest, lifting his mouth off of me and rolls over, depositing me onto the bed and kneeling on a tangle of sheets, his bare body towering above me on the bed.
I stare at him through drugged eyes, my eyes making a slow and deli
cious journey over every curve, cut, and bulge of his body. The best sex of my life has officially wiped me out, every muscle a relaxed mess of orgasmy uselessness. He breathes hard, staring at me, then wipes his mouth and hops off the bed, walking bare assed out of the room.
CHAPTER 8
Silence. No purr of air conditioner, no television from another room. Dead silence as I lay on the bed and try to figure out what I am supposed to do. Follow him? Clean myself up? Roll over and go to sleep? Or is now when he returns with a handful of dollar bills? My lack of expertise in the prostitution gamble puts me at a loss.
Then, his silhouette returns, passing through the lit doorway. I prop myself up on one elbow and smile lazily at him, wetting my lips to speak. My words die on my lips as he moves closer, his gait and build all wrong, too big for BlueEyes.
The man stops a foot from the bed, way too close for my personal comfort and I scramble for covers, for something to cover my nakedness.
“You should be used to men seeing you naked,” he drawls, his voice a mix of husk and southern. He is close enough for me to see his features, to recognize his face. One of the bodyguards; the one who drove us here.
My hands only feel tight fitted sheets, and I glare at him, my hands moving to cross in front of my breasts. “I’m not at the Palace now.”
It is a ridiculous statement, given that I am now at a point below that, having sex for money. But things are different outside the smoky glassed doors of the club. Just because I undress at work doesn’t give anyone and everyone a free look at my body. It is my body and right here, right now, I feel naked and want to cover up. Regardless of what this man has seen me do, I don’t want him to see me like this, and I feel this is my right.
To Have (The Dumont Diaries) Page 3
