I said raggedly, “I can’t. Not only once. I can’t risk it being weird after. I couldn’t live with myself if I fucked this up.”
She drew in a slow breath, let it out through her nose. Then she cocked her head and considered me. “So it’s a negotiation, then.”
My brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“Well if you can’t do it only once, how many times do you think you would be able to do it?” She blinked lazily. One corner of her mouth lifted in a tiny, rogue grin that she quickly suppressed.
Speech was becoming difficult. “I . . . I’m so out of practice . . . I think the first ten or twenty times might just be getting me back up to speed.”
“Ten or twenty? Hmm. Ambitious, aren’t you?” She unhooked her ankles from around my waist and slid her foot down my leg, her toes curled around my calf. “And would that all be in one day, or . . .”
“No,” I said forcefully. I took my tone down a notch and tried to look serious. My blood pressure was through the roof. “No, I think I’d need a lot more time than that.” I cleared my throat of the rasp. “I mean, I don’t want to wear you out or anything.”
“Such a gentleman,” she whispered. Looking into my eyes, she slowly rubbed her breasts against my chest.
Her nipples were hard. I felt them right through my shirt, two firm little peaks that needed my tongue. A growl built low in my belly and worked its way through my chest and out my mouth, but still I held back.
Suddenly all the teasing left her voice and her eyes. She said firmly, “Jackson. I’m in your bed. I’m wearing your ring. We’re hot as two jalapeños for each other. Do me, dammit, and hurry up about it!”
A heartbeat of silence pounded between us. The moment stretched thin, then snapped, and the final shreds of my control curled up like burning paper and turned to ash.
I said, “You should write poetry,” and crushed my mouth to hers.
THIRTY-TWO
BIANCA
I’d seen Jackson’s scary side. I’d seen his hidden sweet side, too, and his suave side, and a dozen others.
But I’d never seen him dirty.
“Off!” he snarled, impatiently pulling my T-shirt over my head. He tossed it aside and it sailed across the room. He took a moment to stare down at me, his eyes black with lust, then he grabbed my sleep shorts and yanked them down my hips. Away they went, flung over to the dresser along with my panties. Kneeling between my spread legs, he made an animal noise as his gaze raked over me. Then his mouth was on my flesh.
There.
I cried out in shock. His mouth was so hot and wet, so unexpected. He dug his fingers into my hips and thrust his tongue deep inside me. I almost died from pleasure.
“So fucking sweet. I’d knew you’d taste sweet.” He took a moment to growl, his breath fanning over my spread thighs. Then he went right back to business.
I threaded my shaking fingers into the thick, soft mess of his hair because I needed to feel it. I didn’t realize how much I’d wanted to touch it until now. And now that I could, I took big, greedy handfuls of it and breathlessly laughed.
I sounded like I’d just robbed a bank and gotten away with it.
Jackson ignored my crazy laugh. His tongue—oh clever tongue—circled round and round that small rigid nub between my legs until it throbbed and I was gasping for air.
When I arched off the bed and cried out, Jackson turned his head and gently bit my thigh. “Close already?” he asked, laughter in his tone.
My hips rocking, I begged him not to stop in a garbled mess of words.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he whispered. “I wish you could see yourself.” He ran his palms up and down my thighs, testing the flesh, pinching it and stroking it, his big hands rough and warm. “This beautiful skin.” He kissed my leg. “These perfect tits.” He reached up and squeezed them, thumbing over my hard nipples so I shivered in delight.
His voice turned spine-chillingly dark. “And this gorgeous pussy. Look at you, spread open for me, all pink and soft. Christ. I can’t decide if I want to eat you until you come and then fuck you, or if I should make you come on my hard cock first.”
Sweet baby Jesus in the manger, Jackson Boudreaux is a dirty talker.
“Please,” I pleaded brokenly. “Jax.”
He gently pinched my clit between two fingers and blew on it. I moaned like a porn star.
“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, lazily stroking me.
I blurted, “Anything. Everything. You.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, “you already have me.”
Then he gifted me with his tongue again. I sighed in relief, my breath shuddering out of me, my body writhing under the expert movements of his hands and mouth.
He knew exactly how to take me to the edge and keep me there, teasing and gentling when I got too close, chuckling at my delirious implorings of “More. Hurry. I’ll kill you if you stop.” He took his time, though I knew he felt the same unbearable urgency I did. His fingers digging into my skin were just shy of painful. Every once in a while, he would catch his breath and curse.
I felt like I was riding a wave. A wave of heat and emotion, expanding from my body to fill the room, the house, the entire state. I wanted to laugh and cry and scream, I wanted to break apart and let him put me back together. I was sinking into the bed at the same time as I was floating over it, the feel of his stubble exquisitely rough on my inner thighs, the sound of his deep-chested grunts reverberating all the way through me.
“Oh God, Jax.” I groaned, unable to hold it in. “I’m there, oh God I’m there I’m so—”
My orgasm stole the words right out of my mouth. I bucked and gasped. My body bowed. My fingers dug into his hair, and I exploded.
He hooked his forearm over my belly and held me down as I convulsed. He slid two fingers of his other hand inside me. Clenching hard around them, I screamed.
It lasted forever, or seemed to. Pulsing and heat and flashing lights behind my closed eyelids, the feel of his fingernails breaking my skin. Everything so crystalline clear, so achingly raw I felt exposed on every level, all my nerves on fire and the frantic hummingbird beat of my heart pounding like gunfire in my ears.
When I came back to myself, I was crying.
“Hush, sweetheart,” Jackson crooned, climbing over me. He settled his weight between my legs and nuzzled my neck. I clung to him, overcome, shaking with the aftermath of acute pleasure and a sudden bottomless fear.
Whatever that was, it was something I’d never felt before. And it scared the bejeezus out of me.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, peppering soft kisses all over my cheeks. His heart pounded against my chest, as hard and erratically as mine did. He was so warm and big and comfortable, an enormous man pillow I could burrow into and get lost.
I loved his weight. I loved how he smelled. I loved how tender he was being, this giant of a human who could crush me in one fist but was stroking my face with the care of someone handling fine china. I loved how he made me feel so safe.
I did not love the strange terror that evoked.
When I finally managed to pull myself together, I sniffled in embarrassment and turned my face to the pillow. “Sorry. I’m not normally a weeper after sex. But that was . . .” I shivered and tightened my arms around his neck.
He whispered into my ear, “Don’t apologize. I feel like a sex god right now.”
I cracked open an eye. He was staring down at me, a big, goofy grin on his face. His dark hair was mussed, his blue eyes were alight, and he was so handsome it took my breath away.
Dazed, I said, “You are a sex god, Jax. You’re the Michael Jordan of sex. You’re the Warren Buffett of sex. You’re the Steve Jobs of—”
“Okay,” he interrupted drily. “No more other men’s names out of your mouth while you’re in my bed.”
I smiled at him. “I’m sorry. That was just like . . .” I sighed dreamily. “Wow.”
The light in his eyes grew hotter. H
e whispered, “And that was only act one.”
Fingers crossed there were a dozen more to follow.
Jackson rose to his knees. Staring down at me, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. It parted under his fingers, revealing his gorgeous hard chest, those abs of steel, that fine dark happy trail I found so enticing. He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, and I sighed again, wiggling my toes in happiness.
“Goddamn, woman,” he said, his voice husky. “You’re gonna turn me into an egomaniac. You should see those eyes. Filthy.”
I giggled. “You’re very pretty, Jackson. This, especially, is my favorite.” I propped myself up on one elbow and trailed my finger down the soft line of hair on his stomach. His abs quivered under my touch. I glanced up to find him gazing down at me in molten stillness, watching me with predatory eyes.
I had an idea.
I sat up, flattened my hands over his abdomen, and smiled up at him. I pressed a soft kiss to the square inch of warm skin right below his belly button.
He froze. “What’re you doing?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I teased. Maintaining eye contact, I traced a circle around his belly button with my tongue, then dipped it in.
His sucked in breath made me grin. I was getting an inkling of how my unraveling made him feel, and I wanted more of it.
I wanted him undone.
My fingers found the fly of his jeans. The buttons slid open with the silkiness of melted butter. I pressed a kiss to the small strip of newly exposed skin above his briefs, and Jackson stopped breathing.
When I licked it, he softly moaned.
“Your little tongue,” he whispered, staring at me in fascination. “Your little pink—”
His words were swallowed by another moan when I curled my hand around the enormous bulge straining the front of his briefs and gently squeezed.
Straight-faced, I said, “There seems to be something requiring attention in your underwear, Mr. Boudreaux. Judging by the size of engorgement, it could be a medical emergency. Shall I have a look?”
He looked like he was going to pass out. He said faintly, “Yes, nurse. Please do.”
It took a geologic epoch for me to pull down his briefs because I was enjoying his expression too much to go any faster. When I finally tore my gaze away from his and looked down, I gasped.
“Holy guacamole,” I breathed, floored by the sheer size and grandeur of Jackson’s jutting erection. “Mr. Boudreaux. This is life-threatening.”
In a strangled voice, he said, “Perhaps . . . you should administer . . . oral treatment?”
I nodded. “I concur. Excellent diagnosis.”
Then I applied my mouth and thrilled to the sound of Jackson’s hoarse gasp.
He was too big to fit more than a few inches into my mouth, but I made up for it with both my hands, which I wrapped around his shaft and stroked in tandem with my tongue. His shaking hands cupped my head. His breathing was labored. After I’d established a rhythm, Jackson matched it with gentle thrusts of his pelvis, each one working a soft groan from his chest.
He was ridiculously large, but I loved the way he tasted and smelled. All that masculine warmth and musk. Delicious. I opened my throat, testing my endurance, and was rewarded with Jackson barking, “Fuck!” His fingers twitched against my scalp.
So of course I had to do it again. And again.
And again.
He sucked in a breath like a hiss between his teeth. He warned, “Bianca.”
I looked up at him. His eyes were barely open. His face was flushed. His chest was heaving. I felt like a superhero.
I said, “Hmm. I can’t decide if I want to blow you until you come and then fu—”
In one swift move, Jackson had me on my back with my legs spread around his waist and my wrists pinned against the pillow. He kissed me, hard, holding nothing back.
I rocked my hips against the straining heat of his erection, and he bit my lower lip.
“Are you trying to drive me crazy?” he hissed, eyes blazing.
“Yes,” I said. “I want the Beast unleashed. I want both of us unleashed. I want it to be wild.”
His eyes closed briefly. He muttered to himself, “Thank God,” then kissed me again, so hard it left me breathless and bruised.
A small table sat beside the bed. He reached over me, grabbed his wallet, pulled something out. A rip of foil and I knew we were covered.
“Good thinking, Mr. Boudreaux.” I gasped as his heat and harness slid into me. Then I couldn’t talk anymore because he flexed his hips and drove himself deep inside.
My hips rose to meet his. My neck arched. My eyes slid shut. I heard his rough whisper against my ear like it was coming from somewhere very far away.
“Bianca. My Bianca. I knew we’d fit just right.”
Then he dropped his mouth to my neck and started to fuck me.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t controlled, but it was everything I wanted and needed. I praised him with such loud, wanton moans I probably scared Droopy Dog half to death as he heard the echoes down the halls.
Jackson still had on his jeans, which somehow made everything even hotter. The waistband was bunched around his ass. I shoved it down farther so I could grip those gloriously firm globes as he pumped hard into me, grunting and swearing.
“So good so amazing oh God don’t stop,” I babbled, writhing beneath him.
He panted. “I can’t—we have to—slow down—”
I hollered, “If you stop, you die!”
He groaned like he was in agony. I gripped his face and kissed him so hard I tasted blood. I wrapped my legs around his back and held on as he started to buck wildly, thrashing the bed. We were both sweating, panting, moaning, and kissing sloppily, out of our minds and loving it.
He reared up on his hands, threw his head back, and roared my name at the ceiling.
So this is what all those stupid love songs are about, I thought, just before I went supernova and exploded in a white-hot ball of fire into space.
THIRTY-THREE
JACKSON
We lay stunned and speechless, tangled in each other’s arms on the demolished bed like victims of a bombing.
After a while, Bianca said in a tremulous voice, “Oh. My. That was . . .”
“Perfect.” I stared at her in awe. “Incredible. Mind-blowing. We should get a trophy.”
Blinking slowly, she smiled. It was a heartbreaking smile, a thing of such soul-lifting and astonishing beauty I felt like a man who’d just discovered religion.
She was my religion. My north and south, my heaven and earth, the axis of rightness around which everything had suddenly aligned. For the first time in my life, all my polarized parts worked as one, humming happily along in harmony with the universe, finally understanding their place.
I surrendered to the feeling completely and without hesitation, knowing that most people would never experience this. This blinding joy. This transcendent bliss. This seismic shift of focus from themselves to someone else that strangely and simultaneously gave birth to the freedom and bone-deep peace they’d been seeking all along.
I always thought love was a pair of shackles, but I was wrong. Love was the opened door of a cage.
“You certainly have a lot of energy, Mr. Boudreaux,” my love said, prim as a librarian. It made me laugh so heartily it shook the bed.
I threw my leg over her, pulled her to me, and sighed in happiness. She burrowed against me, making soft growly sounds of pleasure, her little hands pawing my chest.
“Sex fiend,” I whispered indulgently as she ran her hands all over my body.
“I can’t help it,” she protested. “You’re built like a skyscraper, and your skin is like a unicorn’s mane.”
I frowned. “A unicorn’s mane?”
“All silky and shiny and mystical.”
She said it like, Duh, what moron doesn’t know what a unicorn’s mane is like? I laughed again, helplessly charmed.
“You
’re awfully jolly after sex,” she said. “Me likey.”
Oh God. My fucking heart was going to split open like an overripe piece of fruit. “And you’re awfully chatty.” I captured her lips and kissed her to shut her up.
When we finally came up for air, she stretched against me like a cat, supple and satisfied, lazily licking her lips. “You’re a dish,” she declared. “If you were food, you’d be the filet from that cow on your father’s plane that was massaged and coddled into beefy, delicious perfection.”
“That’s disturbing,” I said, kissing the tip of her nose. “But thank you. I think.”
Her mood shifted like quicksilver, from gossamer light to guarded. She pursed her lips and contemplated my sternum. “Speaking of your father.”
“What?” I was instantly on high alert.
She glanced up at me. “You need to talk to him.”
There was something behind her eyes that worried me. “Why?”
She dropped her gaze to my chest and started toying with my chest hair. “Um. Well. I had a little chat with him last night after you passed out.” Her pause was infinitesimal. “With your mother, too.”
My blood pressure went from sleeping baby to day trader on the stock market on Black Monday. “About?”
Her eyes flashed up to mine. “Don’t shout!”
“I’m not shouting, I’m asking!”
She glared at me.
I blew out a deliberate breath and lowered my voice. “I’m sorry. Talking about my parents when I’m naked in bed with you is . . . yuck.”
She pouted for a second, then relented. “How much do you remember from last night?”
I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it. How much did I remember? Backtracking to before the amazing dream that turned out not to be a dream this morning, I recalled arriving at Moonstar yesterday evening, meeting my father in the foyer, coming up to my room to change, going back down to dinner to suffer through the screaming silence of all the family dinners I’d enjoyed growing up, and then . . .
Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1) Page 27
