The Thrill of It (No Regrets Book 2)

by Lauren Blakely

  I nod.

  “You wanted all of that,” she says, and it’s like she can see inside me, like she understands on such an instinctual level. “You marked your body because these were your hopes and your wishes for a new life. For a new future. For a life without so much pain, so much death.”

  She moves to my chest now, kissing the three small silhouetted birds on my right pec. “And this bird? Is that for freedom? Flying away or something?”

  “It’s a phoenix,” I whisper.

  She tilts her head to the side. “I didn’t realize it was a phoenix.”

  “It’s small. It’s hard to tell. It’s supposed to just be a representation anyway.”

  “And does it mean resurrection? Rebirth?”

  “Yeah. That’s why I did it. But then I was researching the phoenix when a client wanted one, and I learned something kind of cool. The Chinese believe the phoenix represents grace and femininity.”

  “Really?”

  I nod. “Yeah. It’s like a yin and yang thing. Dragons and phoenixes together are a yin and yang. They are each other’s other half.”

  “They’d make quite a couple.”

  “Maybe I need a dragon now. You know, so I can be whole again,” I say, reverting to mocking myself, because sometimes that’s easier.

  She flashes a quick sympathetic smile, but then continues her travels, the tip of her fingernail outlining one of the birds. I draw a deep breath. The feel of her is almost too much. “Or you could put a dragon on me,” she says in a low and husky voice.

  I swallow. “I can?”

  “Yeah. I liked it when you inked me. I want more.”

  “I would love to give you another tattoo,” I tell her, and I can’t resist. I thread my hands through her hair, grab the back of her head, and pull her in for another kiss. This time, I lead. I inhale her, savor her, running my tongue along her sexy lips, then crushing my mouth to hers, hearing her whimper as I kiss her deeply. I want to kiss her so hard and so fiercely that it erases every other kiss she’s had, every memory, every client, every moment with another man. I want to brand her with my kisses, mark her as mine, make her lips all red and swollen so everyone knows I’m the only one allowed to touch her, the only one with permission, the only one she’s ever wanted.

  We kiss like that for hours, or maybe minutes, and she’s wiggling against me and sighing into my mouth, but then her hands are back on my chest, and she pushes me away. A firm, clear push.

  Her nimble little fingers sneak their way down to my rib cage, to the new fresh art on my body. Three trees, twined together.

  “Your trees,” she says, ginger with her touch even though it doesn’t hurt. “You had them done today.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “They’re beautiful. And they’re perfect, because a tree can be many, many things. But it is always, forever and ever, the symbol of life,” she says with a kind of reverence as she stares, mesmerized, tracing the outlines on my flesh.

  Life. It’s what’s happening now. It’s the real, scary, dangerous, amazing possibility in front of me. There are no guarantees. I don’t know what happens next or tomorrow or in a week or a month. With all the other women, I knew what they were. They were temporary. They were pills in a bottle; they were long, slow hits on a pipe. Some left me high for hours, some for days, the rare few for a week or more. But I always came down, always found another. I kept painting over all the vacant corners in my heart, a new coat, then another, then I’d try for one more.

  But now, I don’t know what’s going to happen.

  And I have to be okay with that. All I know is this moment, this night, is the closest I’ve ever come to magic, and I want to feel every second of it.

  “Your turn,” I say, grabbing her hip, tugging at her shirt. “Let’s take your shirt off.”

  “Why, I thought you’d never ask,” she says playfully, and in seconds she is shirtless too.

  God, she’s breathtaking. She has the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty. But no one can hold a candle to Harley. I could say it’s her breasts or her belly or her legs. But it’s not. It’s the tiny mole on her right shoulder. It’s her elbow. It’s her ragged cuticle. It’s the slim white scar on her kneecap from field hockey. It’s every part of her.

  “I have no choice. I have to take your bra off,” I tell her, then loop my hands around her back and undo her bra, letting it fall to the floor. I cup her breasts, and she gasps. I knead them and watch her reaction as she closes her eyes and her head falls back. Her lips are parted and she breathes out hard as I run my thumbs over her nipples. Reflexively, she moves closer, shifting her hips, and I don’t know how I’m going to hold out, because I love everything about how her body reacts. I want to know every inch of her. I want to kiss her from head to toe. I want her under me, on top of me, beside me. I want to drown myself in her scent, in her taste, in her.

  I bury my head between her breasts, licking and kissing and squeezing, and her hands shoot up to my head. Her fingers grapple through my hair, and she tugs my mouth closer, and I go with it. I give her what she wants. More of my mouth, kissing and flicking her pert nipples, until she’s panting harder, and I can’t wait anymore.

  I’ve gone six months without tasting her on my lips, and I want to be drenched in her right now.

  I pull back, plant a quick kiss on her lips, then trail my tongue along her jawline up to her ear. “Let me go down on you.”

  She doesn’t answer immediately. Then quietly, in a small, squeaky voice, she says, “Okay.”

  But she’s all monotone and she doesn’t sound into it. I give her a sharp stare, tilting my head. “Okay? That’s it? Just okay?”

  “Trey,” she says, and her voice is shaking.

  “Trey what?”

  “Do I have to spell it out?”

  “No. I mean, maybe yes. I just want to make sure you want it.”

  “It’s hard for me to say what I want,” she says, turning her head and flinging her hand over her eyes.

  I gently remove her hand. Kiss her eyes. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m sorry. I don’t want to pressure you.”

  “I want it,” she says. “I want you. It’s just that I’m not used to wanting it. Okay? I don’t know how to ask for it.”

  I grin. I can’t help myself. “This is how you ask for it. Trey, I’m dying for your face between my legs. Say that.”

  She narrows her eyes at me and huffs.

  “Just try,” I say softly, nuzzling her neck.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause it’d be so fucking hot to hear you say that, I think I might come just from hearing it.”

  She smacks my shoulder. “Jesus.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re insanely hot, and I’m dying to taste you, and I know you’re not vocal or into saying what you want, and that’s fine. But I’ve never wanted anyone like this, Harley. And it’s not because you’re hot or beautiful—though you are definitely those things. It’s because you’re you. You’re the girl I want. You’re the girl I want to be with. You’re the girl I’m crazy for.”

  She inhales sharply. “Trey,” she whispers. I meet her eyes—they are fiery and wild, but tentative too. Then she pushes through. “I’m dying for your face between my legs,” she says in a broken little whisper, so low it’s almost inaudible, but I hear every delicious word and they set me on fire.

  I undo her jeans, pull them off quickly, then tug off her panties. I don’t even have time to admire them. I have a mission, and I’m going for it.

  My whole body is a live wire right now. I am consumed with nothing but desire for her. My bones, my blood, my nerves are all firing at Mach speed with the need to have her. Of course, I’m pretty sure all the blood in my body has been diverted to one place and one place only, because I am too hard for words.

  But screw words.

  It’s time for action.

  She trembles with anticipation and looks at me with desire, want, and the tiniest bit of fear, but
I know she’s not scared of me. It’s the fear of letting herself feel that’s gripping her. But I am going to make her feel everything. I place my hands on her knees. “I’m going to spread your legs now,” I tell her.

  “Okay,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes, giving that lame word right back to me. But her okay doesn’t bug me now. Because her body has made everything clear. She’s so ready, she’s beyond ready.

  She lets her legs fall open, and that’s it. I’m done. She’s glistening for me, and I cannot wait to taste her. I kiss the inside of one leg, from behind her knee, up her thigh. She shivers, the soft little hairs on her leg standing on end. Then I switch to her other leg, inching closer, and she’s already breathing harder. Her hands search for me, her fingers lacing through my hair as she tries to pull me in.

  “Do you want me to lick you, Harley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to taste you now?”

  “Yes,” she says again, her voice nearing a beg.

  “Do you want me to make you come on my tongue?”

  “Yes, please,” she says, and that last word has several syllables as it turns into a long, low moan of pleasure as I bring my lips to her. To where she wants me. God, she tastes amazing, and I have missed this, I have dreamed of this, I have jerked off to this many, many times. And now I’m back in the promised land where I want to be. I want to have her, to kiss her, to do everything to her with my mouth. To feel her body move and arch against my face.

  I grab her ass, cup her cheeks, and pull her closer, and she makes another sound. A bit louder this time, but still, she’s a quiet one. She might always be a quiet one, and that’s fine with me. I don’t need her to scream or shout to know I’m doing it right. I know because of how she’s moving beneath me, how she’s starting to rock her hips and grab my hair. I know because of how she’s breathing out hard and stilted, and how she tastes on my lips and tongue. I will never get enough of her, I will never stop wanting this, wanting her, wanting to taste her come on my tongue.

  Judging from the way she’s arching her back and thrusting into me, I’m pretty sure that’s going to happen any second. I follow her lead, kissing and tasting and licking her exactly how she likes, in the ways that make her go crazy, make her thrash around. I glance up, watching her reaction as she grabs the pillow, digging her nails into it, gripping it hard.

  Then she says the most glorious thing I’ve ever heard. She says my name so loudly, and she doesn’t stop saying it until the orgasm has rocked her body, and even then, she’s still gasping, her legs trembling as it fades like a wave rolling back out to the sea at night.

  11

  Harley

  I feel it in my fingertips. In my toes. In my hair. The orgasm is still radiating through my entire body, and I think I may be floating for days on this cloud of absolute and utter bliss, like the whole world has turned bright white and gold, and everything is beautiful.

  Trey flops down next to me, looking immensely pleased.

  He nuzzles my neck, then whispers in my ear, “You are so sexy when you come.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling the slightest bit embarrassed. I’ve only had five, maybe ten orgasms tops in my life. I’m guessing three have been ones he’s given me. All the others were self-delivered, and I’ve never been terribly preoccupied with rubbing one out. Sex has always reminded me of things I don’t want to be reminded of. There was too much sex around me anyway—all those awful smells and sounds from my mom’s bedroom or her office. Sounds I never wanted to hear. Sounds I never wanted to make. To be honest, I’ve never wanted to be touched before. I didn’t want someone trying to get me off, trying to make me feel good. I didn’t want to know what I’d sound like when someone did that to me.

  But with Trey, I let go of all that. He’s the only man I’ve ever wanted to feel things with, feel things for. With him, I am learning to let go. Learning that sex doesn’t have to be embarrassing. That contact doesn’t have to remind me of all the things I saw growing up. Giving up control and trusting another person doesn’t have to be the scariest thing in the world. It can be incredible on its own.

  “Hi,” he whispers.

  “Hi,” I say back.

  “You look woozy. But that’s a compliment.”

  I smile, but say nothing. I’m not sure what to say.

  “I know I should feel guilty, since I’m supposed to be a monk or something,” he says, tracing lazy circles on my belly. He bends down to my stomach, kisses me there, makes me tremble. “But I don’t.”

  I run my fingers through his hair, so soft to the touch. “Me neither.”

  He tugs me closer. I’m naked against him, and he’s still wearing his jeans. With him wrapped around me, I can feel his erection. I can feel how hard he is through the denim, his size pressing against my naked skin.

  I feel a rush of heat between my legs, thinking about how hard he is. Damn. I already had an orgasm, and now I’m ready again. I squeeze my eyes shut, and I don’t know what I feel. If I’m ashamed or excited, or both.

  He kisses my eyelids. Then I open my eyes so I can look at his beautiful face and trace his scar that I love.

  “What’s wrong?” Concern shows in his features as he runs his hand along my arm. I don’t think he can stop touching me.

  I open my mouth to try to speak, but my throat feels dry. How was I able to be such a seductress when I worked men up and down Manhattan, and now with him I can barely eke out anything but okays? This is a new language I am learning. I am relearning basic words, saying them for the first time, mucking up the pronunciation.

  But this is Trey. He wants me as I am. He takes me as I am. He wants me sans makeup, sans costume, no lies, no airs, no tricks. So, I try on the words for size, hoping I can get them out. “I’m turned on again, feeling you against me.”

  His eyes widen with lust, and he groans loudly. He clamps a hand onto my hip, pulling me closer. “Harley,” he groans. “You say these things to me and I’m dying. You don’t even know how sexy you are. How hot you are. How much I want you.”

  Want.

  I decide to borrow his words. “I want you,” I say.

  He raises his eyebrows. “You do? I thought on the subway you said…”

  “I know. And I’m not ready for sex. But you know that thing I said I’ve never done? In the drinking game?”

  “Oh God,” he moans roughly, pushing his hand through his hair.

  “Can I?”

  “Please,” he says, and his voice has turned into a beg. He’s so ready, so turned on that he already has his hands on his jeans and is starting to unbutton them.

  “Wait,” I say.

  “For?”

  “I don’t know how to do it. You have to teach me.”

  “It would be my greatest pleasure,” he says.

  I sit up on my knees. Place a hand on his belly. On his ridiculously flat and carved abs. “You have to let me undress you.”

  “I won’t argue,” he says, and lies flat, tucking his hands behind his head.

  I undo the button, then unzip his jeans, tugging them down his hips, over his knees, and off. He pushes off his socks with his feet. I return to his underwear. White boxer briefs that leave nothing to the imagination. He’s so hard, and I can see the outline of his cock perfectly. I draw a sharp intake of breath because he’s so big I don’t know how I can take him in my mouth, let alone have him inside me someday. But I want to know. I want to learn. I place my hand on him through his briefs, and he groans and rocks his hips against me instantly.

  “Take them off, Harley. Please,” he says, and this guy, he has no problem asking for it. Like he asked me to kiss him. Like he’s asking me to undress him. I don’t want to linger on the why, but he has no hang-ups, and there’s something so freeing about that. Maybe because he’s so different from my clients. Because this is so different from any encounter I’ve ever had. It seems so normal, so right, just the way a guy and a girl feel for each other. All want and heat and lust
.

  I reach for the waistband, pull down his briefs, and his erection springs free.

  I touch him, and he’s hot and hard and smooth. And I have no clue what to do next. Do I just wrap my lips around him and suck?

  His eyes are closed, and he’s already breathing hard. “Um, Trey,” I say, red rushing to my cheeks. Because I’m a former call girl and I don’t know how to give a blow job.

  He opens his eyes. They are hazy and glassy, and he looks like he’s drifting off to a happy place.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I admit.

  He props himself up on his elbows, and this is awkward. His cock is in my hand, twitching against my palm, but we’re talking about what I’m about to do as if it’s a medical procedure.

  “It’s actually pretty simple,” he tells me. “You just take my dick in your mouth. And you try not to bite, and the way you do that is like this,” he says, then he shows me by pushing his lips over his teeth. “And that’s really the most important part. Trust me, as long as you don’t bite down hard, I’m going to be coming in about a minute.”

  I nod. “Okay, here goes nothing.”

  Then he stops me. “Wait. Do you want me to come in your mouth?”

  “I don’t know. Do I?”

  “That’s up to you. But if you don’t, I’ll just tell you when I’m about to come, and you can stop sucking, and then just use your hand, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, and I smile, then I laugh, and I drop my face into my free hand.

  “What is it, Harley?”

  “Nothing. It’s just…this is funny, right?”

  He nods and smiles too. “Kinda.”

  “I mean, we’re sitting here, and your dick is in my hand, and I’m asking you for tips, and you’re giving me advice for my first blow job, and I’m laughing, and you’re laughing, and it’s kind of awesome.”

  Then I lick the head of his cock. “Holy fuck,” he says, and that’s all I’ve done, but he’s into it.

  I lick more, kissing the head, then bringing more of him between my lips. He groans and moans, and I love the way he sounds, how he just lets go and curses like a sailor, or a biker, or a guy in a bar.