The Lick Series Boxed Set

by Naima Simone

  “Yes,” she rasped, swiping more of the pearled moisture from his slit. Dragging her fist over the head, she used his own cum to further wet her hand to give him a smooth, healthy pump. “I want you inside me. Ask me to give it to you. Beg me,” she whispered.

  Again, that almost feral gleam entered his eyes.

  “Let me fuck your throat, lisichka,” he murmured. “Let me have that hot, tight, virginal tunnel squeeze my cock. Let me have a hint of what having my cock buried in your pussy will be like. Please give it to me, baby.”

  Begging. That wasn’t begging. That was verbal foreplay. Her clit pulsed, moisture spilling out to dampen her panties. Her nipples ached with the need to pinch and twist them, but that would mean letting go of his dick, his balls. And she wasn’t ready for that.

  She leaned into him, letting his flesh thrust forward, move toward her throat. Deliberately breathing through her nose, she swallowed him. Allowed him to breach her. Quelling the instinctive reaction to pull back, she tamed her gag reflex and slid him farther inside.

  “Goddamn,” Sasha growled. She released him, drew back, and glanced up at him. His head was thrown back, the tendons in his neck like cords against his skin. But then he snapped forward as if he couldn’t bear not seeing her suck him. “Again, lisichka. Again.”

  Since she wanted it, too, she gave in to his demand and clamped her mouth around him, took him to the back of her throat, and held him there.

  His body shook and sweat gleamed on his forehead, rolled down his temples. Though he was hard and throbbing in her hand and mouth, something held him back. The struggle, along with the lust, creased his cheeks, the corners of his mouth. Maybe it was the vulnerable position. The stripping of control. Whatever it was, he couldn’t…

  “Let go,” she whispered, planting a hot, openmouthed kiss on his hip before trailing her lips up his length. “I have you, baby. Let go with me.”

  As if he’d been waiting on her permission, with a shout, he exploded. Semen hit, and she pulled back a little, but immediately returned, still jacking his flesh and swallowing every drop. Only when she was sure he had nothing left to give did she fall back on her haunches. Her mouth ached, her throat felt sore…and she’d never been better.

  Lifting each foot, she removed his shoes and socks, then shoved his pants and boxers down his legs. By the time she finished stripping him, his cock bobbed against her cheek as if it hadn’t just jetted cum down her throat.

  With his pants hanging around his hips, he’d been a sexy beast. Naked, he was a god.

  “Can you get out of those?” she asked, standing and backpedaling toward the bed.

  He didn’t answer—was already removing the cuffs. Need whirled through her, enflaming, invigorating her. As he worked on the buckles of the last cuff, she removed her bra and panties and scooted back on the bed. He stalked closer, and her heart thudded, her sex spasmed.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered, crouching on her hands and knees. He set his palms on the mattress, hiked a knee on the edge, and met her halfway. His mouth devoured her, his tongue thrusting past her lips, tangling, licking, sucking. She tilted her head, and he took full advantage, plunging deeper. Their tongues, lips, and breath mated, mimicking what her sex clenched and begged for.

  “On your back,” she said. “I need you inside me.”

  Watching her with the hunger of a predator, he climbed fully on the bed and stretched out, curling his fingers around the edge of the mattress.

  “Can you take me, lisichka?” he taunted. “Can that tight little pussy take all of me?”

  She wrapped her fingers around his cock and straddled his thighs. Pressing his length forward against his abdomen, she slid her folds over him, bumping her clit over the cap. Groaning, she repeated the stroke, grinding, and circling, coating him in her. But God, it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. Sucking him had turned up the dial on her hunger; she’d damn near come from him in her mouth, in her throat. Now she needed that same thick length filling her.

  “Condom?” she asked.

  He jerked his chin toward the bedside table. “Drawer.”

  In seconds, she had the drawer opened, condom out, and rolled down his column.

  Rising to her knees, she notched him at her opening. Lowering, she pressed down. He penetrated her, and she bit her lip at the fullness. Moaning, she sank more, and stopped, gasping. Glancing down, she saw she’d only taken his head, and she burned, stretched. Whimpering, she lifted her gaze to Sasha. She’d never been with someone as big as him. But her pussy clenched and rippled, practically begging her to take more.

  “Touch yourself, baby,” he crooned. “Circle your clit and pulse on me. Take a little at a time. As long as you need. Just take me.”

  Sliding her fingers between her thighs, she swept a finger over her clit, stroking and rubbing it. Stoking the fire insanely higher, brighter.

  “There you go,” he praised. “Harder. Rub harder, like it’s me touching you. Like my tongue.” She groaned, pressing harder against the engorged bundle of nerves, and a flash of fire lit her up. “Now get down on me, baby. Serve that pussy up to me.”

  She didn’t know if she was ready, but she didn’t care. She needed him inside her. Inhaling, she dropped down on him.

  “Oh. God.” She clenched her teeth, imprisoning a scream.

  So much. Too much. Not enough. He stretched her. Burned her. Branded her.

  She fell forward, her palms slapping his shoulders, harsh pants exploding past her lips.

  “Hold still, lisichka. Hold still. Oh fuck, you’re so tight. So goddamn wet and good,” he growled. His body trembled beneath her, and she knew from the sweat dampening his face, throat, and shoulders that he struggled against thrusting up, against taking over.

  Air, harsh and loud, expelled from her lungs. But even as her body shrieked, a heat started building deep inside her, beating back the pressure and the bite of pain. Sasha was inside her…inside. Her. Every throb of his cock pushed against her walls. Every involuntary flex massaged her, eliciting a groan.

  “Move, baby. Fuck me. Take. Me,” he rasped.

  Lifting halfway off his dick, she eased back down, slowly, circling her hips against his. She gasped as her clit rubbed against his pelvic bone, arrowing pleasure to the heart of her. She repeated the motion. Again. And again. Until she rode him, picking up speed, racing after the orgasm that loomed so close, she could feel the lick of its flames.

  “That’s it, baby,” he encouraged, his flesh swelling inside of her. “Tell me when to come,” he snapped. “Let me know when I can come inside you.”

  “Not yet,” she breathed, her voice breaking on “yet” as another graze of her over-sensitized clit had pleasure shuddering through her. “I’m so close, so close…” Leaning back, she palmed one of his thighs, arched her back, and circled her clit.

  Sparks crackled and popped, and oh Christ… One more caress. One more stroke. Caress. Stroke.

  “Now,” she screamed, and splintered.

  Hard hands clamped down on her hips, jacking her up and down on his cock, pushing her through the orgasm, dragging every wave and ripple out of her. Dimly, she heard a low, rumbled roar. But by then, she was floating.

  And she willingly let go, knowing she wasn’t alone.

  Chapter Six

  “Thank you.”

  Corrine’s murmur brushed over Sasha’s chest, the puff of her breath cooling his overheated, damp skin. A deep, heavy lethargy weighed down his limbs, infiltrated his bones. Another of the new things he’d never experienced before Corrine. Usually, after sex, a restless energy filled him, as if the orgasm left him wired. He’d never been drained…or complete. And he’d never lain beside a woman, content to have her draped over him like a blanket.

  This—she—was an aberration, and the knowledge that it couldn’t last, that they couldn’t last, was the only thing prohibiting panic from sinking its claws into him.

  “For what?” he asked. Unable to stop himself, he picked up a thick str
and of her fiery hair and twisted it around his finger, thankful she’d removed the wig so he could touch the hair that had fascinated him from the very first. He waited for her reply, and when it didn’t come, he cupped her chin and nudged her head back. “For what?” he repeated.

  Her long, thick lashes lowered, hiding her eyes from him. “I bet no one tells you what to do,” she said instead of answering his question.

  He frowned, not grasping the meaning of her reply. He’d been speaking English for nearly twenty-two years, but sometimes this woman’s conversation made him wonder if some phrases still eluded him.

  “Of course people have told me what to do,” he said. “Not lately, though.” Excluding the past few nights with her. His cock stirred at just the thought of her kneeling before him, controlling him even as he had his dick buried in her throat. Or of her straddling him, fucking him with slow, torturous slides.

  She was right; not many people dared order him around. Since his father had issued his ultimatum, then disowned him, Sasha had maintained control over his own life.

  Power was important, especially when involved in the mob. People would use and abuse if a person allowed it. In a world where trust was scarce and guarding your back was a necessity, he’d ensured no one would ever have him at their mercy. But being in constant control, always regarding others with suspicion, never letting go, was exhausting. And when Corrine had taken some of that power, demanding he submit some of that strength into her keeping, letting him just be for only a little while, he’d trusted her.

  And it’d felt so goddamn good.

  For once in longer than he could remember, he’d handed over that control, relieved that he could release it and in return receive an ecstasy that had shattered every concept of sex and pleasure he’d experienced and possessed.

  She had no idea of the gift she’d given him. Of the power she wielded.

  Of the fear she instilled.

  “There has never been a time in my life where someone wasn’t handing out rules, making demands, issuing orders, and expecting me to follow them,” she said. “And for the most part, I did obey them. Maybe because it was easier to, maybe because I believed in the course they wanted me to travel. I don’t know. But in twenty-four years, I haven’t been in control of my own life, had no significant say-so. Until tonight.” Her lashes lifted, and her green eyes twisted something in his chest. “You gave me a glimpse of what it feels like to be strong, to take charge and own it.”

  “You are strong, Corrine,” he murmured, brushing her tangled hair back from her face. “Brave. Sometimes it takes more strength to be still and quiet than to move. Maybe you just weren’t ready before. But someone once told me, it isn’t what you’ve done that defines you, but who you choose to be from this moment on.” His mother had uttered those words to him when he’d been lying in a hospital bed after having been shot.

  “I’m so scared,” she rasped, jerking her head free of his grip on her chin and curling into him. As if she couldn’t face him for the confession. “Of everything. Of the life I’m walking back into as soon as I leave here. Of the brothers, cousins, and friends who are now strangers, as more and more things come out about the world I’ve blindly grown up in. Of…of my father,” she whispered. “Do you know C. Dunn?”

  The switch in topics threw him, and for a second, he struggled to keep up. What did a sports columnist for an online newspaper have to do with her father? Or her, for that matter. “Yes. The sports journalist for The Beantown Globe. But I don’t see—”

  “I’m C. Dunn,” she stated, tone flat.

  Shock nailed him in the chest like a wildly thrown haymaker. He sat up, carrying her with him, his hands on her shoulders. His mind rifled through what he knew of the columnist: obviously knew his—no, her—sports, was witty, interesting, and hilarious, and a fanatic when it came to Boston’s home teams. Sasha couldn’t remember seeing a picture of the journalist, and then recollections of Corrine’s sports references and staunch defense of the Sox and Patriots ran through his head. Damn.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, and the defensive gesture warred with the vulnerable tremble of her mouth. What? Did she expect him to ridicule her? Laugh?

  “That’s fucking amazing,” he said, awe filling him. “God, Corrine,” he said, chuckling.

  Some of the defiance leaked from her expression, uncertainty replacing it. “You believe me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? Does the site know who you are?”

  She nodded. “But I asked them to keep it a secret. Not only is it something that’s all mine, but…” Her expression darkened, and her arms tightened around her chest. “Do you know what my father would’ve done if he’d found out his daughter, who was supposed to be finding a husband and having babies, wrote a sports column? My parents, especially my father, have clearly defined ideas of who they want their daughter to be, and writing about baseball and football is not included in them. It didn’t—doesn’t—fit in with who he demands I should be. He would’ve forced me to quit, threatened my editor, and ruined the newspaper. And I knew what he was capable of before I found out who he really was.” She loosed a harsh bark of laughter. “How stupid does that make me?”

  “Corrine…” He drew her closer, but she scooted away from him, taking the sheet to wrap under her arms and over her breasts like a shield.

  “No.” She scooped a handful of her hair out of her face and shook her head, holding out a hand, halting his words. “The man who tucked me in at night…the man who walked me into school my first day of kindergarten…the man who stood and applauded the loudest at my high school and college graduations…he’s the same man who has pimped women, peddled drugs, and ordered murders. Maybe he didn’t personally stand on those corners dealing or shoot the guns, I don’t know. But he headed the organization that did. What would he have done to the people who had helped his daughter defy him? What would he have done to me? I hate myself for asking myself that question. Hate myself more because I don’t know the answer.”

  Christ. Were these the same thoughts that had run through his mother’s head about him? Had she seen the son she’d raised and sacrificed for as a monster? He closed his eyes, exhaled, but the suffocating pressure in his lungs didn’t ease. Because he knew—he knew—the confusion and hurt that darkened Corrine’s eyes were a perfect reflection of what his mother had felt during the years she’d lived with the knowledge that her son was a criminal.

  “Sasha?” Corrine’s hand cupped his jaw, and on instinct, he turned his mouth into her palm, seeking the heat his newfound revelation had leeched from his body. “Sasha, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m just like your father.” He let the bald statement hang in the air between them.

  Opening his eyes, he met her gaze, waiting to see the fear, condemnation, hate, and betrayal there. But after several seconds, they didn’t appear, and her thumb stroked his cheek…waiting. Sighing, he cupped her hand in his and lowered it, placing it in her lap and drawing back. It wasn’t right to allow her to continue to touch him when he had to tell her she’d become involved with a man who’d once existed in the same murky world her father ruled.

  “I grew up in a neighborhood where the Irish mob ran nearly everything. And if they didn’t run it, they extorted it. My two best friends had been born into the life; their parents were heavily involved. And eventually, I became involved, too. At an early age, they ran errands, stole cars, collected debts. Killian and Rion were big for their age, and after the sixth grade, so was I. But while they didn’t really have a choice, I did. I loved it—the danger, the excitement, the rush, the money. My father, who had left everything in Russia to come to America in order to give his family a better life, hated what I’d become. He was a hard man, but he was also very proud. And having a thug as a son was something he couldn’t stomach or condone. When I was sixteen, he kicked me out of the house and his life, and as his wife, my mother cut me out of her life, too.”

  “Sasha, I’m so sorry. God, you
must’ve been so scared.” She reached for him again, took his hand in hers, and this time, he let her.

  “Yeah, I was,” he admitted for the first time, even to himself. Even after Killian offered his home to him, he’d still been scared, rejected, and as grief-stricken as if his parents had really died. “My friends took me in, and I continued in that life. Corrine, my father had been a professor with degrees in Russia, and then when he came here, the only work he could get was as a janitor in a school. I saw him struggle, scrape to get by and provide for us, and I didn’t want that. I wanted to be my own man, have everything I wanted. Even if it meant stealing to get it. I was damn good at it until one job.”

  She didn’t interrupt but reached around him and stroked the bullet wound under his shoulder.

  He nodded. “The guy who was in charge of casing the jewelry store didn’t know the owners had hired an extra security guard. I was shot—almost died. When I was in the hospital, my mother came to see me. Eleven years without a word from her, and she visited me, told me she was dying. And her only wish was to see me become the man she’d raised, the man she’d always believed I was capable of being.”

  Cradling his jaw in her palm again, Corrine caressed his bottom lip. “And you did.”

  “Eventually, I did,” he agreed. The road to leaving the mob hadn’t been easy…hadn’t been clean. He, Killian, and Rion had paid a heavy price. Maybe Killian more than he or Rion. Still, they’d escaped the mob life and granted his mother’s dying wish. At least, he hoped he had. She probably hadn’t meant owning a sex club, but it was legitimate. It was honest. He prayed that was enough.

  “She would’ve been proud,” she murmured, as if reading his mind. “You’ve built something of your own that gives people the freedom to be who they are. To find who they could be. Like I did.”

  Her compassion stunned him, momentarily stealing him of his voice.

  “What is it?” she asked.