“Sweetheart.” His low, sex-and-sin voice slides through the paranoid whispers, and I jerk my head up to find his apartment door open and him peering down at me, that emerald contemplation a little too insightful. He moves into me, forcing me to shuffle backward until my spine hits the wall of the landing and his large frame counters mine from chest to thigh. A big, warm hand cradles my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone in calming, patient sweeps. “Your pace. Your decision. Your choice. You get me?”
That snarl of rope slowly starts to unravel in my chest. Enough that I can loose a self-deprecating chuckle on a puff of breath. “What if I decide that I came all the way here just to cuddle? Is it still my decision?” I drawl, only half joking.
“Yes.” The answer is blunt, quick, and unequivocal. “If we go in there, and all you want is for me to warm you through the night, then I will. Do I want to fuck you? Yeah. But if you don’t need that from me, then tell me what you do want, and I’ll give it to you. No questions asked. No explanations needed.”
I stare at him. Believing him. Even with his erection a hard, impossible-to-ignore brand against my stomach, I believe him.
And that calms the last of my nerves, smoothing them out like a crystal-blue lake with the barest of ripples disturbing its deep waters.
“Let’s go inside,” I breathe, lust returning hot and thick now. My skin prickles with the desire to be pressed naked flesh to naked flesh. My hands itch with the yearning to finally test out the strength in those muscles that his shirt couldn’t hide. My sex clenches and spasms with the hunger to be claimed, filled, pounded, used… “I don’t want to cuddle,” I tell him, so he has zero doubts about where I stand or what I’m here for as soon as we step into that apartment.
“Make it clear, sweetheart,” he presses, his head lowering so he’s almost uttering the words against my lips. “Whatdoyou want?”
I bring my arms up between us, which is an extremely tight fit. But I fist the lapels of his coat, hiking myself higher. “I want to still feel you inside me when I walk out of here in the morning.”
Heat flares in his eyes, brightening them like a flash fire. He doesn’t reply, but eases back, prying one of my hands from him, and, once more, enfolding it in his. Then he leads me inside his home.
Quickly, I get an impression of a long, narrow hallway branching off into a large living room, several windows, and a huge sliding door. He ushers me through the place and into a shadowed bedroom. Pale beams streak through curtained windows. It’s enough to glimpse the king-sized bed with a utilitarian set of covers and a couple of pillows. The no-frills decor continues with two short drawers flanking each side of the bed, a tall dresser against the far wall, and a free-standing table that looks like the kind an architect would use in a corner.
Then there’s the art.
It covers nearly every inch of the walls.
Framed. Frameless. Huge. Small.
It’s like I stepped into a room in the Art Institute of Chicago. With the lack of good light, I can’t determine what the pictures depict, but this sudden urge to stroll over to his bedside table and flick on the lamp so I can study them pulls at me like a riptide. I would’ve never pegged Jay as an art lover. I’m used to men who plunk down hundreds of thousands of dollars to collect paintings for their investment portfolios. Men who hang them in conspicuous places in their homes so their guests can “ooh” and “aah” over their obviously exquisite taste and ability to afford those treasures. That’s if they hang them at all instead of hoarding them away.
But for Jay to hang them where he can avidly enjoy them, in his most private room, speaks to something about this man that I don’t want to delve into. Because curiosity means there’s more to him than your average hit-it-and-quit-it. And he’s not more. He can’t be.
Determined to get this one-night stand started, I turn around to face him. “I need you to—good God.”
I gape at the shirtless man in front of me.
Jesus Christ. He not only has art hanging on his walls, it covers his body.
Those thick arms, roped with muscle, the solid wall of chest, the corrugated planes of his abdomen…even the delicious slopes on his hips that slide down into the faded jeans hanging on them—all of it is wrapped in ink.
The breath expels from my lungs, and this time, I surrender to the impulse to investigate, study, touch. Crossing the bare inches that separate us, I run my fingertips over the dark swirls and geometric shapes; the black and grey of a skull that’s so lifelike, I swear I can feel the cracks and ridges in the bone. More tattoos beckon my inspection. The lush petals of roses circle his forearm, the rendering so vivid I’m only half convinced the dagger-sharp thorns won’t draw blood. More dragons, a hauntingly lovely Day of the Dead portrait, animals, words… Jesus, he’s stunning. I would’ve thought it an impossibility, but somehow, he became more beautiful.
The need to see what else his clothes are hiding sparks deep inside me like a struck match, swift, hot, and bright. My overeager, trembling hands drop to the button on his jeans and pop it open. He doesn’t stop me as I tug down his zipper, his only reaction the slight intake of breath and hollowing of his stomach as my knuckles brush his skin. When I drop to my knees in front of him, he allows me to drag the denim down his hips and powerful legs.
I push the jeans to his ankles, leaving them gathered around his Timberlands and him standing in a black pair of cotton boxer briefs. Sitting back on my heels, I can’t help but stare. And admire.
More ink adorns thighs that look like they can lift semi-trucks without exhibiting the slightest strain. Even the back of his ruthlessly toned calves are tattooed with a heavy black tribal pattern covering the tight muscle of one, and a stylized tree with roots that stretch down and encircle his ankle on the other.
“God, you’re insanely beautiful,” I breathe, flattening my palms over his knees and slowly stroking them up, up, up, sliding over dense flesh until my fingers meet the edge of his boxers.
And I still continue on my path, my thumbs brushing the heavy, warm weight of his cock that’s tenting the cotton and damn near fighting free of it. Of its own volition, a hum rumbles free of my throat as I catch sight of the rounded head peeking above the band. Smooth, flushed, a dark, ruddy red. Only the apocalypse could prevent me from leaning forward and slicking my tongue over his flesh. And once his faintly salty, completely heady taste hits my tongue, I’m not even certain zombies and the world going to hell could pull me away from him.
Ridiculously excited and impatient, I jerk the briefs lower, revealing all of him. AndGod, there’s a lot of him. And what I’m realizing is a theme with him, it’s beautiful. Perfection. The broad, swollen tip, now wet from my tongue, is just a precursor of what follows. Which is a wide, thick, veined, slightly curved column that reaches to just below his navel. My sex quivers in anticipation or anxiety—I honestly can’t tell which one. Probably both.
Wrapping my fingers around the bottom half of his cock, I can’t help but pump it, savoring the feel of steel sheathed in satin. Strength covered in vulnerability. I stroke all the way up until the head disappears in my fist. And as I slide my hand back down, I open my lips and take him inside. My tongue curls around the fat head, sucking, pulling before flicking the sensitive rim. His big hands grab my head, his fingertips pressing into my scalp. He hisses, and the low, sharp sound of pleasure cuts through the silent room like a whip, and lashes at my clit. Wanting more of that—craving more of that—I hollow my cheeks, draw harder, and lower my head, swallowing the next few inches of his dick. Damn, does he fill my mouth. Already my jaw stretches to accommodate him, and there’s more than half of him I’ve yet to take. My sex swells, moisture coating my flesh and soaking my panties as hunger and anticipation wind through me.
I love giving head; I refuse to lie or be ashamed of it. I also refuse to lie about most of my enjoyment deriving from the idea of kneeling before a man but being the one in absolute control. Having the power. Both of which are important to me.
But here, in this position of submission with Jay, it’s less about control and more about dragging another one of those growls and sexy, animalistic grunts from him. It’s less about power and more about pleasing him and seeing that angelic warrior face twist in lust. There’s pleasure in that—in knowing I’m the one doing that to him.
With a groan, I arrow his cock down and, flattening my tongue, slide him over it until he prods the entrance to my throat.
