“You’re beautiful,” I whisper, fully freeing him. Flicking my glance up his torso, I meet his gaze, and it’s blazing with heat. “You’re so beautiful,” I repeat. And this time, I’m not referring only to his flesh, but the man. The soul of the man.
No. Not going there.
This is about sex. About feeling good. About losing myself in that good. Bowing my head again, I trail my lips up his length, brush them over the damp tip, lap at the small drop of cum already beading on the shallow slit. His taste, so earthy, musky, andhim, explodes on my tongue, and I can’t help the hum of pleasure that rumbles out of me.
That small sample seems to set me off. Parting my lips, I dip my head lower and take more of him. Like a dead-woman-walking presented with her last meal, I fall on him. Sucking him, licking him, swallowing him as if I’ll never experience this—him—again. My hand fists the almost brutish base of him and pumps the bottom half I can’t manage to take.
“Slow, sweetheart,” Jude grinds out above me. His fingers tunnel through my hair, dragging the strands away from my face, granting him an unimpeded front-row view of him fucking my mouth. “Goddamn, Cypress.” He gently removes my hand from around his flesh, replacing it with his. “I’ll never get tired of this. Never,” he murmurs. I don’t know if he intended for me to hear that admission, but it sends a warm thrill through me. One that is totally misplaced when all I want to feel is this crazy, mind-numbing lust.
I suck him deep, bobbing up and down his length, maybe trying to push him toward release. Maybe trying to convince myself this is only about raw, wild sex and nothing else. But Jude’s hold tightens in my hair, and his other hand releases his flesh to cradle my cheek. He holds me still, pulling me off him until the head just brushes my lips.
“I said, slow,” he reminds me. His thumb sweeps a gentle caress over my cheekbone, then one corner of my mouth, before trailing the caress over my bottom lip to the other corner. “I know what you’re trying to do, sweetheart. But you’re not going to use me as a substitute for the shit going on in your head,” he murmurs, calling me out. “This is about us, nothing else. So you’re going to take me slow and feel every second of it. Love every second of it.”
I stare at him, digging my nails into his denim-covered thighs. In punishment, or holding on to him? At this point, I don’t know. But the next time my lips part for him, it’s deliberate, guided by his hand on my head. He fills me, and I don’t resist. Don’t want to.
Instead, I push myself higher on my knees so I can take more of him. Moaning as his taste floods my mouth, my tongue swirling around his tip before gliding down his length. Savoring him. Committing him, his scent, his very essence, to memory. I sink farther down until he bumps the entrance to my throat. And still I’m not satisfied. Relaxing my muscles, I breathe through my nose and swallow more of him.
“Sweetheart. Damn.” He groans, his fingertips pressing against my scalp, his hips pulsing so his cockhead massages my throat, slipping farther and farther in, bit by bit.
My throat muscles convulse around him, my eyes watering. But I don’t stop. Can’t stop. Withdrawing far enough to drag in air through my nose, I take him again, deep throating him. His thighs clench hard under my nails, and his abs sink in, becoming concave. My name is a litany, a prayer on his lips. And as his hands sweep over my hair, my cheek, trace my mouth stretched so wide around him, they worship me.
“I’m coming, sweetheart,” he growls the warning, his hips punching forward harder, more insistent. “Goddamn, I’m too close.”
Last time, I pulled free of Jude, jacking him off with my hands. Never have I let a man finish in my mouth. It’s like sex without a condom. Too intimate. But now, with his cock throbbing against the roof of my mouth and my tongue, with him penetrating my throat…with him trembling with the effort to control his release for me…
Reaching above me, I thread my fingers through his in my hair, both of us cupping my head. Holding me down. Demanding he give me his cum. Give me…him.
“Cypress.” He groans, his body so stiff he appears on the verge of snapping in two.
Maybe he understands what this one act means to me, because as the first splash of his seed hits my tongue, his eyes, hooded and gleaming, meet mine. They refuse to release me. Not as I swallow him down. Not as the last tremor ripples through him.
Not as he drags me up onto his lap and crashes his mouth to mine.
Our tongues tangle, tasting each other. Tastingus.
With hurried, frantic hands, we stand and strip each other naked, his growl and my whimper blending, mating as we finally press bare skin to bare skin. His big body burns, and I’m singed by him. I want to be consumed by him until there’s nothing left but ash and the fragrance of sex, of us, left.
I’m clay, there for him to mold and shape as he lies on the wide couch and settles me in front of him, curling his body around mine. He lifts my top leg and settles it over his, spreading me wide. The crinkle of foil reaches my ears, and he sheathes himself in the condom he removed from his jeans before he shoved them to the floor.
Though I’ve been here before, I still hold my breath. Waiting. Shivering. Savoring that first thrust. The first moment of penetration. The first stretch and burn. Lifting an arm above and behind me, I wind it around his head, and he buries his face in the crook of my neck just as he plunges inside me.
“Oh God,”I breathe, arching tight as the pleasure careens through me like lightning.
A hard hand under my thigh and one cupping my breast holds me captive for his deep, grinding thrusts. I’m open for him, vulnerable and, though I should hate it, fight it, I don’t. Instead, I indulge in it, letting him control it and just receive. Knowing he’ll take care of me.
AndGod, does he take care of me.
His artist’s fingers toy with my nipples, tugging, tweaking, stroking. Drawing passion out of me as easily as he brings art to life on paper and skin. With each stroke, he stirs my desire higher, hotter. His dick brands my pussy, possessing it, and if I didn’t know better, shaping it so only he will ever be enough for me. Ever fill me. Ever satisfy me. And that thought both thrills and terrifies me.
Unwinding my arm from around his head, I lower it, skimming my fingers over my chest and belly until the tips stroke over the place where we’re connected. Fire races through my veins as I circle my clit, playing with myself, shuddering under my touch and his possession. Letting Jude take all my weight, I shift and bring my other down, tracing my folds, sliding it over his cock as it drives in and out of me. We—his pre-cum and my moisture—coat my fingers, and I rub it into the skin of my lower stomach, as if I can somehow mark myself. Crazy, wild. But that’s what he does to me. Makes me want the impossible.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss under my ear that’s so at odds with the hard plunges into my body. “Get there. Get us there.”
His fingers slide over my hip, then tangles with mine. We both strum my clit, working me in tandem. In perfect synchronicity. Pleasure, so sharp, so loud and bright, vibrates within me. Crackles along my skin like electricity over exposed nerves. My hips buck against our joined touch, but the position limits me, turning me into a willing captive to his cock, our fingers.
“Baby,” I rasp, my voice serrated by raw lust. “Please. I need… Oh God,” I groan, shaking. “I justneed.” I’m not above begging. Not when release looms so close the heat of it singes me. But it’s not nearly enough. I yearn to be incinerated by it.
“Hold on to me,” he rumbles, and not waiting for me to comply, he cuffs my wrist and draws my arm up and winds it around his neck. “Hold on, and don’t let go.”
