Page 13 of Untamed
Gasping, I halt my movements, peering down at him, waiting for his reaction.
He lifts his face, his stare penetrating mine in the shadows of the cab, eyes blazing, but not from anger. Breathing heavy, he pants, “How old are you?” Kissing me once more, he pulls back, tracing my lower lip with his thumb as he awaits my answer. He keeps his eyes on mine, looking for secrets and lies.
Shit.
Avoiding the question, I return my hands to him, working on his buckle. The clanging brings our stares together once again, sending my heart racing and my hands shaking. I don’t know why my hands are shaking—it’s not like I’m new at this. It’s far from my first time.
It’s a brief moment, the slightest pause and it looks as though he might stop me. I think he wants to, but he doesn’t. I smile, hoping I’m giving him permission for whatever he’s asking for.
“You want me to stop?” I ask. My cheeks flush, warmth spreading.
With a slow shake of his head, his right hand wraps in my hair, gentle but firm. His eyes come back and capture mine, and I’m weak at the desire within them. My heart gives a kick. He’s not going to stop me. He’s bringing me along for this ride. “You done this before?”
My stomach jumps at the sound of his voice. Is he asking if I’m a virgin? Turning my head, I nod. It’s better that he knows. Once I give him the answer, it could go either way.
I wait.
His expression offers me nothing, so I continue. His buckle catches my eye. It’s gold and has a bull rider on it with words I can’t make out given my blurry state. I think I drank a little too much.
I reach for it again. He doesn’t stop me this time. When I have his belt and his zipper undone, my fingers work toward the edges of his black boxers. His stomach pulls in, a trip in his breathing. My gaze catches his, still no emotion is offered for me, only that fire-lit intensity. He squints a little, his head tipped to one side but still, no words.
Just as I get one hand inside his boxers and on his hard length, his hands are on mine, stopping me. “How old are you?” he asks again, looking for the truth, the blue stones capturing me inside their spark.
“Eighteen.” It’s a lie, but I’m close enough. What’s a few days?
“You lyin’ to me?” His brow arches, his slow southern drawl so sexy.
I debate for the briefest of moments. Something tells me I should tell him the truth. But what’s a couple days’ lie?
I smile. “No,” I say immediately, trying to ease his worries. I’d never tell anyone I was with him, and I think that’s why he’s asking.
Part of me thinks he knows I’m lying, but I don’t think the whiskey in him cares enough to make him stop me. He gives up whatever he’s struggling with and helps me out by pushing his jeans and boxers down around his ankles and then leans back against the seat. He tips his hat up slightly, but not enough that I can see his eyes, just shadows. Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be looking at him anyway. I’ll be busy.
My hands run over him, he’s hard, bigger than I expected by looking at his height, and I’m not all that sure I can get him in my mouth without gagging. I palm his cock, gripping it. He squirms, his legs straightening. “You don’t have to. . . .” His voice trails off, giving me an out.
“I want to.” It’s probably the first time I’ve everwantedto do anything to a guy.
When my lips touch the head, he’s quiet, but his leg tenses under my hands again.
There’s a thump. His head hits the window when I go all the way down, my lips at the base of him and then sliding back up slowly. I twist my head to the left to get a peek at him. His head is bent forward now, the tiny flickers of orange and red from the fading bonfire give me what I’m looking for. His hooded eyes lock onmeand judging by his expression, he’s enjoying what I’m doing.
Leaning forward, he keeps me where I’m at and sets down the bottle on the floorboard of his truck, his hands returning to my hair. He’s all heavy breathing and white-knuckle gripping, barely able to stay still until he’s shaking and pushing my head down harder. I let him. It’s sexy and I’m giving him what he wants. He doesn’t say anything. Not a damn word.
I like it when guys don’t say anything during sex. I don’t need that shit where they’re talking and telling me how sweet my mouth is or how wet my pussy is for them. I don’t want to hear any of that. I want that heart pounding connection between two people. And until now, I haven’t experienced it.
I prefer this right here. I’m not here to talk. I’m here for pleasure, his and mine.
Grayer doesn’t last long, maybe five minutes, stopping me once, trying to make it last I assume, and then pushes my head back down. It’s just enough that I know he doesn’t want this to end.
When he comes, he says nothing and my only indication is his legs tensing, the muscles flexing under my palms and the soft groan that leaves his parted lips. Angling my face, I watch him, his body hunched forward as he cradles my head in his lap, eyes closed and brow contorted in pleasure. When his cock pulses in my mouth, he makes a throaty noise that’s erotic as hell. I let him come in my mouth, and I kind of like that he didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.
When I know he’s finished, I sit up and lick my lips. I give him one more look. He’s still semi-hard, his jeans around his ankles. I reach for my hat and replace it on my head. He rights his clothing while I do the same. My skirt’s a little wrinkled and the knotted front of my tank top had somehow come undone.
He stares at me, like he’s waiting for my reaction. I smile. That’s my reaction. I’m never one for conversation afterward and he doesn’t seem to like it either. I find comfort in the similarity between the two of us. I’m rooted in the moment with him, unable to move away. I can see it now, his discipline, the undeniable need to be the one in control of his intentions.
Just as I turn away, long calloused fingers wrap around my wrist, gentle but firm. “Thanks.”
I smile and twist the door handle without another word.
