by Naima Simone
Another long, low moan rumbled in his chest, reverberating in her belly, stroking over the hypersensitive flesh between her thighs.
She moved into the room.
No thinking. No second-guessing. Her bare feet slid noiselessly across the hardwood floor. But she must’ve made a sound because his thick lashes lifted, and turquoise fire blazed bright in the shadowed darkness.
Pulling up short at the foot of his bed, she met his hard, luminescent stare. His chest rose and fell on deep, rough breaths. The harsh stamp of arousal on his face didn’t ease. The sexual, almost cruel slant of his mouth didn’t soften. He didn’t beckon her closer.
But he didn’t order her out either.
Clutching that small detail like a lifeline, she raised one knee onto the mattress. Then the other. Slowly, she crawled the short distance to his big body, granting him time and opportunity to send her away. Yet, even when she knelt between his spread, hard thighs, he remained silent.
Need was a living animal writhing inside her as she gripped his cock directly above his fist. Hot. Steel. Velvet. She tightened her hold, and it bucked and pulsed in her hand. This close his fresh wind scent was sharper, distilled, and combined with the unique musk that belonged solely to him, it made her mouth water for a taste. A taste…hell. She wanted to gorge herself on him.
His fingers unraveled from his rigid flesh, and as she gave the shaft one lush pump, those long digits speared through her hair, twisting, pulling. Tugging her down to the cock she dreamed about and craved.
Sighing, she rubbed her lips across the cap, her mouth coming away wet with the precum slicking the swollen tip. She hummed, licking the essence of his desire. Sharp. A sweet tartness. And him. Hungering for more, she swiped her tongue over the shallow slit and was rewarded with another pulse of fluid.
Growling, Shane thrust his other hand into her hair, pressing his fingertips to her scalp. Wordlessly, he ordered her to take him. Suck him.
And she obeyed.
Her lips parted over his flesh, swallowed him. A ragged moan ripped the air. His. Hers. Theirs. Because as his thick shaft slid over her tongue, pleasure coursed through her like rushing waters bursting free from a dam. God, he was hard, wide…delicious. She curled her tongue under the flared hood of the head and gave a healthy suck.
His dark growl preceded the tiny pricks of pain to her scalp as he yanked on her hair. Those bee stings reverberated in her clit, sparking and aching in correspondence with each tug. Needing more, yearning for more, she rose slightly, angling her head. At this new position she took him deeper, engulfed almost half of his cock. Groaning, she reveled in the stretch of her lips, the pulse beneath his taut skin, the strain in his thighs.
“Don’t play with me, Fallon,” Shane snarled with another pull on her curls. “You came in here for something. Take it. Suck it.” He rolled his hips, pushing another inch into her mouth. “Suck it hard, baby.”
The raw eroticism and demand in the words enflamed her. Her pussy clenched, and if she’d had a free hand, she would’ve touched herself to alleviate the ache. But with both hands around his cock, she wasn’t letting go. Not yet. Not until he flooded her mouth and throat.
She withdrew, dragging her mouth and tongue up his dick at a slow, leisurely pace, pausing to swirl her tongue around the swollen head, before descending down, down until her lips bumped her fist. God, she could come from this. This wasn’t her first rodeo with a blow job, but she’d never understood the lure of it. How a woman received pleasure from it. But now she did. With every wrench on her hair, every muttered curse, every jerk of his flesh, she understood. Because his desire fed hers. Knowing she made this beautiful male animal tremble tossed kindling on the fire blazing in her core.
Closing her eyes, cheeks hollowed, she rose and fell over his flesh over and over, the wet suction of mouth over skin filling the room like a sexual symphony. She lost herself in the sensuous glide of his rigid cock over her tongue, the hoarse breaths and harsh groans, the samples of his cum with every lick to the bulbous tip. Pumping one hand, she lowered the other between his thighs to cup his balls, squeeze and roll them.
“Goddammit,” he rasped. “I told you about teasing me,” he warned. Tightening his hold on her head, he held her steady, immobile. “Now I’m going to fuck this pretty mouth. Open wide, baby.” He barely waited until she acquiesced before thrusting between her lips in a fast, hard pace. That quickly he wrenched the control from her, making her a prisoner to his hunger and lust. And she loved it. Loved every stroke, every pulse, every raw curse.
“Wider. More,” he ordered, his hips punching upward in a rhythm echoing in her clit, her pussy. Digging her fingers into his thighs, all she could do was hold on for the ride. “Dammit, more,” he growled, and she stretched her mouth wider until the pull resulted in a dull ache. But she didn’t ease up, giving him what he asked, demanded.
“Yeah, baby.” He groaned. “I’m about to come. Damn, I’m about to come hard.” His hips slowed as he tilted her head back slightly so she could meet his burning gaze without slipping from her mouth. “Out or in?”
In reply, she sucked harder on his cock. And he swore, resuming the rapid thrusts. His shaft swelled, expanding until he seemed to fill and brand every inch of her mouth. Then, with a long, low, rough roar, he stiffened. Exploded. Her name caressed her ears as hot, thick spurts blasted over her tongue, hitting the back of her throat. Eagerly, she swallowed, taking everything he had to give her. His big body bowed, tremors running through him. And still she continued to draw on him, licking, comforting.
As his jagged breathing evened and eventually quieted, she pressed a last gentle kiss to his flesh, scattering small presses of her lips to his hip and thigh. Just moments before the room had been soaked with serrated groans, carnal demands, and hoarse curses. But now, after the storm had crashed and ebbed, the silence rolled in like a dense fog. Bringing with it the cold, the confusion, the dark.
Shivering, and not from the unsated desire that thrummed under her skin and between her legs, Fallon inched off the bed, her gaze on his thighs, on his ridged abdomen, on the cock that still remained long and thick in spite of his recent release.
Anywhere but his face. If she spied greed there, she might not leave the room, or him. But if she spotted the cold reserve there, the rejection, she might go Lorena Bobbitt on him. She couldn’t handle that with the taste of him still strong in her mouth. The feel of his dominant thrusts still echoing on her tongue…
A hard, unyielding hand gripped her wrist.
She jerked her head up.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Shane’s voice, hoarse from his orgasm, danced over her skin, stroked between her legs. He sat, drew her back onto the bed, and flipped her over so he loomed over her. His palms pressed the mattress on either side of her head, his knees nudging her inner thighs. “We’re not finished.”
Slowly, without breaking the hot connection of their gazes, he lowered until his torso covered hers. No way he could miss the rapid, harsh puffs of breath escaping her lips or the tight points of her nipples poking his chest. As he slid down, her stomach muscles contracted almost to the point of pain. Anticipation. Terrible, delicious anticipation pounded in her blood, clenched her abdomen, quivered in her sex. Part of her brain struggled with the reality of it, certain she was dreaming and any second would wake up, trembling, hot, sweaty, and unsatisfied.
But the cool rush of air tickling her thighs assured her this wasn’t a fantasy. Shane was pushing her T-shirt up her legs, baring her shamefully damp flesh to his gaze. Spread wide, she couldn’t hide her reaction to him. And the thin panel of her panties might cover her sex, but it most likely wasn’t concealing how aroused and wet she was for him.
He knelt between her legs, rising like some unholy god of all things carnal. His narrowed study branded her as he pushed her shirt higher. She shivered, as much from the lust racing through her as the slight, air-conditioned drafts licking across her hips, stomach, and breasts.
“I knew you would be gorgeous,” he uttered, his tone gruff, almost reluctant. “And I knew…” He didn’t finish, instead dipped his head and captured a taut nipple between his lips.
Her cry bounced off the walls of the room, echoed in her ears. Trembling escalated into full-out quakes as she tunneled her fingers through his hair, held his head close. Her back arched, offering more of herself to his mouth, his tongue. He sucked hard on her flesh, grazing his teeth over the beaded tip, then soothing the sting with greedy licks.
God, it was so good. He made her feel so damn good. No one else had ever made her body sing like this.
“Shane.” She whimpered, gripped his head harder. “Please,” she pleaded.
Mind reading must’ve been included in his repertoire, because he murmured something low and unintelligible against her breast and trailed his hand down her belly, under the edge of her panties. Just as he lifted his head and treated her neglected breast to the same sweet attention, he drove a finger into her pussy.
Her heels dug into the bed, her hips rising to his touch. Jesus, that blunt, long finger stretched tissue that hadn’t seen action in months. She squeezed her thighs together around his hand, trapping him inside her.
“Relax for me, baby,” he whispered, kneading her breast and pinching her nipple with his free hand. “Let me in.” In spite of her tight clasp, he withdrew and thrust back in with two fingers. With another strangled cry, her legs fell apart. “Damn, you’re tight, but so wet.” He groaned, and she savored the hungry, dark sound—a sound and need she incited within him.
He set up a quick, breath-stealing pace, his knuckles bumping against her swollen folds with each plunge. He was relentless, propelling her toward a cataclysmic release. She could do nothing but twist and writhe under him, a willing prisoner to his mouth and hands who received the pleasure he doled out.
She strained toward him, clutching him close and riding his fingers with a fervor reserved only for the desperate search for orgasm.
“Come hard for me,” he softly ordered against her skin. “I want to feel every bit of it. Understand, Fallon?”
Jerking her head, she gasped, unable to voice her acquiescence. Latching on to her breast, he drew hard, pressing the bud against the roof of his mouth with his tongue. And below. Oh Jesus Christ, below he curled his fingertips against a magic button deep and high in her core. God, she was…
She exploded. Soared over the edge into ecstasy so hot she wouldn’t have been surprised to find out she’d pulled a Wicked Witch of the West. Low murmurs filled her ear and broad palms stroked down her spine, her side as tremors rippled through her.
Drifting back down, a warm satisfaction weighed down her limbs. Lethargy crept in, but so did the return of that awful silence.
The awful, awkward silence.
This time when she eased off the bed, he didn’t stop her. And without a word, she turned and escaped the room, closing the door behind her. Once she reached the guestroom, she climbed back into bed, jerking the sheets over her shoulders. Her soft pants seemed like cannon blasts in the room as her mind replayed what had occurred in his bedroom.
Shit.
If Shane had avoided her for years because of a kiss, he might leave the country over a blow and hand job.
Chapter Nine
Somewhere a village was missing its idiot.
And he stood six three, wore a size fourteen boot, and carried around guilt like a man purse.
Seven years of steering clear of temptation. Seven years of maintaining a stranglehold on his control. Seven years of keeping his hands off.
Then one night with her in his house, and Shane had blown that accomplishment six ways to Sunday.
Dick. One. Sanity. Zero.
The woman could drive a saint to a night of hitting the bourbon. And last time he checked, his halo had been placed on permanent layaway.
Swearing, he jerked a black, long-sleeved T-shirt over his head, then dropped to the bed to pull on his boots. Giving his shoelace a vicious yank, he swore he could still smell her vanilla scent on the sheets. Could still feel the powerful almost bruising clamp of her sex on his fingers. Could still hear the soft suction of her mouth on his cock, feel the vibration up and down his length from the little hum she made in her throat. A hum of pleasure. Of hunger.
What the hell had he been thinking?
That’s just it—he hadn’t been thinking. At least not with the correct head.
Being in Fallon’s company the past two days had been like a sensory overload after years of deprivation. She’d stoked a hunger in him so bright a cold shower hadn’t been able to quench the flames. So he’d taken matters into his own hand—literally. He’d lain in bed long after the light under her door had dimmed, and imagined his fist was her tight core squeezing him, milking him. Behind his eyelids, he’d envisioned her naked, golden body, glistening with sweat, rising and falling over him. Her toned, strong thighs caging his hips, her beautiful breasts with their stiff tips grazing his chest. Her head thrown back, her hair, dark brown and damp with moisture, sticking to her shoulders and neck.
The fantasy had him barreling toward orgasm. And as he lay there, fucking his palm, he heard it—a hushed rustle. A soft whisper like clothes brushing against skin. He’d opened his eyes, and his fantasy had come to vivid life. Fallon. Watching him. Hearing him groan her name.
As she’d stood at the foot of his bed, he should’ve stopped her. Should’ve ordered her to turn around and leave. Should’ve exercised the damn discipline he prided himself on.
Instead he’d remained quiet and received a blow job that had damn near placed him on the endangered species list. And nearly drowned in the pleasure of her uninhibited response as he brought her to orgasm. The vision of Fallon caught in the middle of release wavered in front of his eyes. Sexy. Beautiful. Unforgettable.
He wasn’t a monk; he enjoyed sex. Loved the musk of it, the groans, sighs, and erotic suction of flesh penetrating flesh. The liquid heat and muscled clasp of a woman’s pussy as he burrowed deep inside her. Yeah, he enjoyed sex. But still…since the first time he fucked at fifteen to the last time months ago, none of the encounters—none of the women—compared to Fallon and the need and ecstasy he’d found in having her lips wrapped around his cock or feeling her squeeze him like a vise as she came.
Afterward, as sweat had dried on both of them, and her body ceased to shudder next to him, he’d glimpsed the uncertainty in her eyes. Noted it in the way she’d quietly exited the room. A kinder, more sensitive man would’ve called her back, held her…something. But he was a weak son of a bitch, and he’d allowed her to go.
Weak because he’d wanted to ask her to stay, to not leave the bed until it was on trembling legs, achy thighs, and a tender pussy. But he couldn’t. Touching her, allowing her to touch him, had been a mistake. One he couldn’t repeat. Yet, how they could pretend last night hadn’t happened—how he could burn the memory from his brain—he had no clue. If he escaped this ordeal with his control intact and his cock firmly tucked in his pants, it would be a minor miracle.
He rose, glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand, and scrubbed rough palms down his face before dragging them over his head. Christ, six a.m. Six hours after she’d left his room, and she still wouldn’t leave him alone. Not physically. Mentally, emotionally. Fallon had been a fixture in his mind for so long he should charge her rent.
But between the time he’d looked up to find her in his bedroom and now, the facts hadn’t changed. Fallon was his little sister’s best friend. She wasn’t for him.
Frowning, he swiped his wallet and phone off the bedside table and left the bedroom. A moment later, he descended the steps to the first floor and entered the kitchen.
He jerked to an abrupt stop.
So much for the pep talk.
His cock lurched behind his zipper, stretching and throbbing. He held still, certain if he made one movement, he’d explode like a pimply-faced teenager copping his first illici
t glimpse of breasts. Shutting his eyes, he silently swore. But seconds later, he fixed his gaze on the ball-squeezing sight that greeted him.
Fallon, cooking breakfast in a sleeveless white shirt, her breasts thrusting against the thin material, and a pair of jeans that had probably required grease and a prayer to squeeze into. Damn, the way the denim molded to the curves of her ass… And God Almighty, what an ass. His scrutiny dropped to her bare feet with their pink-painted toes. Simple and somehow as sexy as a December centerfold.
If he stayed there in the kitchen with her, he would have her laid out on the table, his face buried between her thighs, her screams and thighs caressing his ears. And he wouldn’t stop there. He wouldn’t stop until he was lodged so deep inside her, he might not ever find his way out again.
And he might not want to.
Christ, a primitive, possessive part of him knew he wouldn’t want to. She was the exact antithesis of him. Yet she was the only woman his body raged for.
What a monumental clusterfuck. One he’d placed himself square in the middle of.
“Cooking?” he asked, cursing the gravel-roughened tone. It could be mistaken for early morning hoarseness, but the erection in his pants called out that lie.
She started, not having noticed him in the doorway. Lifting her head, she met his intent scrutiny, the spatula in her hand suspended over the pan. The memory of the previous night lit her gray gaze, and he clenched his jaw.
Hands off. You’re here to protect her, that’s it.
The admonition looped in his head like a subliminal tape trying to convince him smoking was bad. At this moment, she presented more of a danger than becoming hooked on nicotine. With a patch and willpower he could kick that habit. Her? There hadn’t been a rehab established that could make him forget the addicting feel of her mouth on his dick. Or keep him from craving more.
