I dropped my stare to look at his crotch, just as impressive as the night before, so thick. And then his shirt came off.
Oh, yes, yes, yes. I’d felt his muscles last night, but seeing that six pack made me breathe harder. He had tattoos up the insides of his arms, but I couldn’t make them out. He came at me, backing me against the tall the bed and kissing me again with abandon, his hands tangling inside my hair, pulling, his erection pressing against my stomach. He was impassioned, but not gentle. My hands were all over him, up his taut sides and over his muscled back, waist, then his hard ass. For once I was behaving with a patron the way Marco really wanted me to. I wondered if he was watching. If he was proud. But the thought was fleeting.
Mr. Douglas growled, grabbing underneath my butt to lift me onto the bed. I crawled backward as he loomed, coming at me. Just as I was about to reach for his cock, he surprised me, pulling back the blankets and pointing for me to climb under the sheet.
It wasn’t my strangest request ever. I complied, as always, without question or hesitation. He climbed under with me, pulling the sheet up to his shoulder blades as he found his way between my legs and held his weight above me. His eyes bore into mine. He looked at me so much. It was highly unusual for a patron, and even more unusual for me to stare back, but his eyes were so beautiful—an expressive dark blue, saying things I couldn’t understand.
Would I get in trouble for looking at him like this? Momentarily scared, I dropped my eyes and concentrated on his body. Up the inside of one of his arms was writing. The other arm had a design…a tree, maybe? When he began to lower himself I stopped trying to focus on his tatts.
I raised my hips, ready for him, but when he settled himself on top of me he pressed his cock inside the crook of my thigh and leaned forward, rocking his body seductively. He bent and placed his lips at my ear, whispering low.
“Pretend I’m talking dirty to you. Say, Oh, yeah.”
What? That was…weird.
Damn it. Disappointment rushed through me. He was a freak, just like all the others.
“Oh, sí, Se?or Douglas,” I moaned.
He began to move his strong hips in a delicious circular motion and thrusting his hips, making the bed rock.
Again he lowered his lips to my ear. “Pretend I’m fucking you.”
Was he kidding me?
This was beyond strange. What the hell was going on here? The man was as hard as a rock. Why wasn’t he having sex with me?
My thoughts were interrupted when his hips moved enough to shift his cock against the center of my slit. He found my wetness there and we both groaned as he slid up and down against me.
Okay, weird or not, that felt really good. I rocked up and back, meeting his strokes. He watched me, moving a strand of hair from my mouth.
“You’re fucking beautiful, you are.” His thumb moved over my cheek, down my chin, and he watched it trailing my skin. “A wee, golden flower.”
My fingers gripped his muscular sides and my nails dug in just slightly as I felt another orgasm building. This was my lucky freaking night. I wanted him to keep talking. Keep looking at me like that. My breaths quickened. He pressed harder, moved faster, taking all of my body’s hints.
“Fuck, yes,” he whispered as I clung tight and came hard against him. I rubbed and rubbed against his wide shaft, pressing to release every tiny tremor, and then a deep rumble rang from his diaphragm. Men made all sorts of funny sounds when they came. Most went high-pitched, but not Mr. Douglas. When he orgasmed his voice lowered, like a growling beast of a man, and it was incredibly sexy. I wanted to hear that sound again and again, and I hoped I would in my dreams.
His voice lowered further and he sat up on his knees as if pulling out of me, grasping himself as the sheet flew back. He came, a thick stream shooting across my belly and breasts, up to my chin.
We were both breathing hard. He wouldn’t look at me now, and I had to wonder…
What was that? The best non-sex of my life, yes, but why hadn’t we done it? If he was gay he could have requested Josef. Nobody around here had any qualms about that, so I couldn’t imagine he was hiding homosexuality. Did he think I was diseased? He’d obviously been blood-tested when he came, like all patrons to my knowledge, so he had to know I was clean.
Why didn’t he want to have sex with me?
Unfounded hurt crept over me. I felt offended, though truly I was more baffled than anything. Part of me thought it was ironic that I’d be upset over a patron not wanting to fuck me. And even more ironic that I’d wanted to fuck him.