A college student bored in bed while she studies and draws idly on her own skin.
In classic Zenny fashion, she is a mix of fearlessness and uncertainty, squaring her shoulders and hiding nothing from my hungry gaze while she bites nervously at her lower lip.
“Perfect,” I rasp, and I see how my praise affects her. Good. I plan on praising her lots over the coming month. “Now finish eating while I look at you.”
“I—what?”
“Finish eating. I know you went to the shelter after your classes today, and I’m going to guess that you haven’t put anything in your stomach since maybe some coffee you had this morning.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Maybe.”
“And how often is that the case? That you’re doing so much between school and the shelter that you miss your meals?”
One of her hands comes up to rub at her shoulder as she looks away. “Often,” she admits.
“That ends tonight,” I say sternly. “Eat.”
There’s a moment when I think it’s coming, the inevitable asshole, the moment she tells me to stop. She doesn’t need some white guy playing Daddy with her, she definitely doesn’t need someone treating her like she’s not capable of caring for herself. But Carolyn Bell was a social worker until her cancer diagnosis, one Bell brother was a priest, another Bell brother burns a candle at both ends like his wick will never run out. I’ve seen what happens to busy people, and I know it’s much, much easier to justify losing a night’s worth of sleep for the cause than it is to justify taking ten minutes to make a sandwich. The most selfless people, the most driven people, they need permission to take care of themselves, they need someone who will put them first, because they won’t do it for themselves.
The word asshole never leaves her lips. Her eyes flash with irritation, then they shimmer into some internal struggle that leaves her lower lip trapped between her teeth and her hand hovering over her fork.
After a short silence, she picks up the fork and takes a bite. And another. And another, until her plate is clear. I watch her the entire time, stretching out in my chair and thrilling in this new feeling that’s a potent mixture of desire and a caveman-like satisfaction at tending to someone’s needs. The combination of seeing her eat the food I provided and the promise of all that smooth skin slowly pebbling into goose bumps.
She pushes her plate back and sets down her fork, giving me a look that says well? And also giving a little shiver of anticipation, because she thinks that was it, that I had my bossy fun and now we’ll move on to the part where I fuck away her sort-of virginity.
I do really, really want to do that. But I have plans first. Because if she really were my girl, there’s a certain way these things would unfold and since I’ve officially committed to Project Doubt, I’m going to give this experiment everything in my considerable power. Seduction, affection, bossiness, fun—everything.
I stand up, not bothering to adjust the thick penis pushing against my slacks; I’ve been hard for so long tonight that I’ve stopped caring if it shows. Zenny’s eyes follow my body as I clear the table and set the dishes in the sink, and more than once, I see her gaze linger over the ridge of my erection.
I resist the urge to smirk, but only just, coming back after washing my hands and helping her out of her chair. Then I trace a finger down her belly, circling her navel until she shivers.
“I’m going to unbutton these jeans, Zenny,” I tell her. “I’m going to unzip them. Then I’m going to slide my fingers inside your panties and play with what I find there. Yes?”
“Yes,” she breathes, her stomach quivering under my fingertip, and I make good on my word, slowly working the metal jean button through the buttonhole until it pops free.
Zenny gives an answering exhale—shaky but determined. I keep my eyes on her face as I tug the short zipper down, keeping tabs on her expression, on her comfort. Some embarrassment is normal, nerves are to be expected—but there’s a razor-fine balance I need to maintain between giving her what she wants and pushing her too fast. A month just isn’t enough time to do this properly, to cultivate and tend to her blooming lusts. To awaken her body.
If I could ask for anything right now, it would be a year with her. A year of tutoring and teasing and bossing and savoring her.
Even a year wouldn’t be enough.
That thought pings through the rest of my musings, loud and resonant, and I’m not sure where to put it, so I ignore it for now. I need to focus on what’s important, which is the girl trembling all pretty and eager in front of me.
I run my fingertips along the scalloped line of her panties, which match the color and the filmy material of her bra. I know without asking that this is probably the most daring lingerie she owns, and despite how modest it actually is—there’s no straps or mesh or cut-outs or any of the usual trimmings that makes women’s underthings into confections of fun—it makes the entire effect more delicious somehow, more sinful. My sort-of virgin, my almost nun, trying to be naughty and instead looking more innocent than ever.
I look down to where my fingers toy with the top edge of her panties, then back up to her face.
“Are you nervous, baby?”
“Yes,” she confesses, her hands going up to my shoulders and fisting in the shirt there.
“Fun-nervous or bad-nervous?”
She thinks for a minute, which I appreciate, because I need her to be sure. I need to be sure. I wasn’t bullshitting her when I said I was worried about our age difference, because the things I want to do with her are not just dirty, but like, dirty dirty. The kinds of things you don’t admit to wanting in the harsh light of day, the kinds of things that make even a man like me blush.
Keep her safe.
“Fun-nervous,” she says. “If you would—” she stops.
“Tell me, Zenny.”
She takes a breath, pins her eyes on mine. “I’m ready for more. I’m nervous, yes, but it’s excitement, not fear.”
“Good.”
“So,” she swallows, “give me more. It’s fun and I like it, and I’ll call you an asshole when I’m ready for you to back off.”
It’s my turn to swallow. Her green-lighting more in that signature combination of careful and bold is almost enough to make me throw all my plans out the window and just kiss the hell out of her until we end up on the floor in a hungry press of hips and mouths. To fuck the soft split between her legs until I’ve fucked away this fierce infatuation, the alarming affection and possessiveness I already feel for her after such a short time.
Sean, I scold myself. Fucking stop it. I was the one who was all I’m doing this for you earlier, and I’ll hold myself to that if it kills me.
this is for her
this is for her
this is for her.
“Okay,” I say, finally gathering myself. “I’m trusting you to call me out on being an asshole. Now take off your jeans, darling. It will make it easier for me to play with you.”
She kicks off her flip-flops and wriggles out of her jeans with a perfunctory kind of shimmy, and I find myself strangely drawn to the sight. I’ve paid lots of women lots of money to undress for me, I’ve fucked society wives determined to show off every expensive stitch of their La Perla or Agent Provocateur—but I’ve never seen a girl undress like this, artlessly and quickly, without performance. It feels intimate, somehow, and it makes me wonder what else I could get hard watching her doing. Brushing her teeth or putting on lotion. Tying shoelaces.
Then she’s in front of me, all bare skin and thin silk. Her nipples are begging to be sucked, her belly is tight, and her hands twist together in front of her panties, as if she wants to hide herself from me and is trying not to.
I step forward, deciding to give her hands something to do. “Hands on my shoulders like before,” I tell her. And then I add, a little sternly, “No hiding from me. You’re fucking beautiful and I’ll stare at every inch of you until I get my fill.”
She puts her han
ds on my shoulders again, a little smile playing across her mouth. I can guess why.
“You like being called beautiful?” I ask, brushing my lips across her forehead. Then across her cheeks. Her eyelashes flutter in girlish happiness and I both curse and thank every man that came before me who didn’t give this woman every compliment and tender word she deserved. It’s ridiculous that she’s twenty-one and she’s never been properly petted and praised, and yet thank God, because otherwise I wouldn’t be the one in front of her, here and now, with my fingers tickling gently along the top of her panties.
“You are beautiful, Zenny,” I say with my lips still against her cheek. My fingers slide beneath the elastic border and her belly tenses even more. “Your face is stunning, your body is a work of art. But it’s you I can’t stop thinking about, how you ask for things and how you argue, how you tease and how you rant and how you glow when you talk about what matters to you. When I say the word beautiful, sweetheart, know I mean it.”
She nods, about to answer, when the pad of my middle finger brushes against a narrow triangle of short curls.
“Oh Zenny,” I say, my cock giving an abrupt, painful throb. “Oh baby.”
“What is it?” she whispers, tilting her head to meet my eyes.
“On the couch,” I say hoarsely, pulling my hand from her panties and giving her ass a little swat. “On your back.”
She moves backward, turning uncertainly toward the living room as she does and giving me a view of her perfect ass. Firm enough to curve, soft enough to bounce a little as she walks, sloping into strong thighs and up into hips made to have my hands curled around them. I can already imagine the heart shape her ass will make when she’s bent over for me.
Fuck. Me.
With a stilted breath, she lowers herself onto the sofa, dark curls like a halo around her head on the cushions and her bra and panties pulling tight against her skin as she arranges herself. And I prowl up to her like a cat, like a predator, like a hungry man coming to a banquet table.
“Should I take off my—” Zenny’s thumbs hook in her panties, but I still her movements with a steely look.
“That’s for me,” I say. “I want it.”
“You want to be the one to take off my underwear?” Her thumbs don’t move, so I squat down beside the sofa and give one little nip with my teeth, which sends her hands up to her chest. And then I keep my mouth at her hip as I speak, letting my breath warm and tickle the skin there.
“I’m not going to take off your underwear. I’m going peel this silk off you like the skin of a fruit, and then I’m going to eat you. I’m going to suck on you like a plum. I’m going to unwrap you like a Christmas present and then you’ll see what a happy boy I am.”
She’s breathing hard, her copper-tinted eyes dilated and dark on mine.
“But first,” I say, turning my lips to drop a real kiss on her hip, flicking my tongue along the edge of her panties, “there are some things you need to know.”
A flicker of impatience across her face; an involuntary press upwards with her hips. “Sean, we’ve been over this—”
“No,” I murmur, moving my mouth closer to her navel, which silences her. “This is different. I know you trust me, you know I trust you. And now it’s time for me to show you what I would do if you were mine, my own sort-of virgin.”
Her belly quivers under my lips. “Yes,” she says, her voice dry until she wets her lips. “Yes…I…I want to be that. Yours to do with as you like.”
“You are, darling. You are.” I chase a finger up her thigh until she gasps and jerks underneath me. “My little virgin. That boy before, he didn’t do a good job with you, did he? He didn’t know what a gift he had in your body, in your sweet little cunt.”
My finger gets to the edge of her panties where her thigh meets her body, and her legs part of their own accord. “He didn’t tell you all the things you need to know.”
Her back arches as my fingers skate over her center, light as a tickle, and to the other edge of her panties. “N-no, he didn’t.”
I tsk. “He should have known such a smart girl would want to know everything first. He should have known that you would have wanted to hear about your cunt. And about the parts of him that would hurt and ache until you made them feel better.”
Her breath hitches and her eyes go glassy. “Are you going to tell me?”
“Oh yes, sweetheart.” I can see the pout of her cunt through her panties, the tempting secrets underneath. And when I run a finger straight up her middle—fuck, yes—she’s wet, wet enough to leave a sweet little spot on her panties as I press them against her flesh. “I’ll tell you everything.”
Chapter 13
I start stroking her pussy again over her panties and she inhales instead, trying to move toward my hand.
“This is your cunt, sweetie, and it needs to stay happy. It needs to be licked and kissed and petted. Doesn’t it ache now? Doesn’t it need something?”
I see the moment she decides to play along with my little teacher game—a flash of thought, chased by an eager bite of her lip. She nods at my question, parting her legs even farther.
My fingers slide up the silk-covered folds to the swollen tip of her clit, which I then give a firm circle. Her back bows off the cushions as her mouth gapes in a silent moan.
“This is your pretty little clit, isn’t it?” I say, circling it with the kind of pressure that sends her toes curling. “It needs to be played with when it gets stiff and needy like this, baby. It needs to be rubbed.”
“Yes,” she swallows, eyelashes fluttering. “Oh God.”
“And all that wet—you feel it, don’t you?” My fingers echo my words, finally sliding beneath the edge of her panties.
She gasps. “Y-yes.”
I play with her for a minute, running clever fingers along the slick skin. “When it gets wet like this, that means it needs attention. It needs to be fucked.”
I pull my fingers out—relishing her whimper of protest as I do—and then I wrap my hands around the sides of her panties and tug them down. “I’ve been dreaming of this cunt since the gala,” I tell her roughly, my eyes on the vee between her legs that’s appearing as I peel off the silk. “I need to see it now. It’s all I can think of, it’s the thing I wake up wanting—”
I break off because I’ve worked her panties down her thighs and to her knees, and once the silk is past her feet, she’s all mine to see. All mine to look at and to play with and to taste and to fuck, and Jesus, that feeling is so heady, like a slug of whiskey, like a shot of morphine, burning up my veins and blurring my vision.
Her knees are back together from helping me ease off the last of her modesty, and I take a deep pleasure in sliding my hands up the lengths of her legs, my thumbs finding that sensitive spot above her knees and just on the inside of her thighs. There’s a moment when I see it—see us—see my hands being the hands of a thirty-six-year-old man with a too-expensive watch glinting on his wrist. See her legs being the smooth and slender legs of a woman barely budded into womanhood.
It’s wrong to be turned on by that. Wrong to notice it in a way that makes me hungry for more.
But I can’t help it. It’s like every reason I shouldn’t do this—her age and her impending vows and the fact that she’s Elijah’s little sister—makes it more and more undeniably arousing.
I push her legs apart and finally see what I’ve been mad with wanting.
“Oh Zenny,” I say in a choked growl. “Oh darling.”
“Sean,” she says, and that’s it. Just my name.
Every part of her quivers.
I take my time looking at her, committing every single curve and fold of her to memory. The curls kept short and neat, the cleft itself shaved bare, revealing all of itself proudly. And when I run my thumbs up her thighs to caress her outer lips, I feel for myself how fucking soft and silky she is. My cock feels like the skin will split it’s so fucking hard; a jut of painful need throbbing in my pants. It’s ge
tting so difficult to remember why I wanted to follow this little plan of mine, especially now when I can see the rich, wet opening waiting for me. And—oh fuckkkkk—when I part that opening with my thumbs, I can see her most secret place. The place that blushes into wet and pink and tight.
I groan and close my eyes. And then I open my eyes to see her gazing up at me with an expression of pure, liquid trust.
It melts me. Renders me into something both less and more than a man.
“Your pussy is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I inform her. And then before she can argue or laugh or respond, I bend down and give that sweet cunt an inaugural kiss, taking my time to taste her, to lick her, to find the satin skin under her opening with my tongue, the needy little nub at her apex.
She lets out something that sounds like the cross between a laugh and a wail—an inelegant noise that comes right from her belly—all surprise and longing. I grin against her pussy, because I’ve heard so many women issue the kinds of practiced moans they think men want to hear, scheduled gasps and oohs and oh you’re so good. But I’d take Zenny’s laugh-wail over those other noises any time.
I kiss her pussy thoroughly, deeply, taking advantage of my armless sofa and moving between her legs—knees on the floor, wide shoulders folded in between her thighs, my hands sliding greedily under her ass to lift her to my face.
As with everything, she is a contradiction. Artless and deliberate, embarrassed but driven past caring. I feel it in the way she jolts and squirms the first time my tongue laps at the pleats of her asshole, in the way her feet confidently rub at my back while her hands cling desperately to my wrists, the squeeze of her fingers asking questions I know she’s too proud to voice.
Do I taste good?
Do you like it?
Do you like me?
My tongue and my hunger answer for me. Yes, she fucking tastes good, a clean kind of sweetness with that rich undertone that seems calculated to drive men like me mad. Yes, I like it, I’m starving for it, starving like a mortal who’s tasted fairy fruit and now can never eat anything else again.
Need you Now (Top Shelf Romance Book 2) Page 122
