His eyes closed and his head fell back. I took the opportunity to crawl closer, needing to bridge the physical distance between us, at least.
“Did you come for me when I had my fingers inside you, Eva? Or because of his goddamn song?”
Oh my God . . . How he could doubt—?
I made him doubt. I did that. “You. You’re the only one who can get to me like that. Make me forget where I am. Make it so I don’t care who’s around or what’s happening as long as you’re touching me.”
“Isn’t that what happened when he kissed you?” Gideon’s eyes opened and focused on me. “He’s had his dick in you. He’s fucked you . . . blown his load inside you.”
I cringed away from the horrible bitterness in his tone, the vicious nastiness. I knew just how he felt. How badly the mental images could sting and claw until you felt like you were going mad. In my mind, he and Corinne had fucked dozens of times while I watched in sick, jealous fury.
He straightened suddenly, leaning forward to rub his thumb roughly across my lips. “He’s had your mouth.”
I grabbed his glass and drank what was left in it, hating the harsh taste and searing burn. I swallowed by force of will alone. My stomach roiled, protesting. The heat of the alcohol spread outward from my gut.
Gideon sagged back into the seat, his arm thrown across his face. I knew he was still seeing me kissing Brett. Knew it was eating a hole in his mind.
Dropping the glass on the floor, I surged between his legs and fumbled with his button fly.
He caught my fingers in an iron grip but kept his eyes covered with his forearm. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Come in my mouth,” I begged. “Wash it away.”
There was a long pause. He sat there, utterly still except for the heavy lift and fall of his chest.
“Please, Gideon.”
With muttered curse, he released me, his hand falling limply to his side. “Do it.”
I rushed to get to him, my pulse pounding at the thought that he might change his mind and deny me . . . that he might decide he was done with me. The only help he gave me was a momentary lift of his hips, so I could yank his jeans and boxer briefs out of the way.
Then his big, beautiful cock was in my hands. My mouth. I moaned at the taste of him, at the warmth and satiny softness of his skin, at the smell of him. I nuzzled my cheek against his groin and balls, wanting his scent all over me, marking me as his. My tongue followed the thick veins coursing the length of him, licking him up and down.
I heard his teeth grind when I sucked him with long drawing pulls, moans of apology and bliss vibrating in my throat. It broke my heart that he was so silent, my vocal lover who always talked dirty to me. Always told me what he wanted and needed . . . how good he felt when I made love to him. He was holding himself back, denying me the satisfaction of knowing I pleased him.
Pumping the thick root with my fist, I milked him, sucking on the plush crown, luring his pre-cum to the tip where I could lick it up with rapid flutters of my tongue. His thighs bunched, his breath came in fierce pants. I felt him coil tight and I went wild, double-fisting him, my mouth working so hard that my jaw ached. His spine straightened, his head lifting from the seat only to slam backward as the first thick spurt exploded in my mouth.
I whimpered, his flavor igniting my senses, making me crave more. I swallowed convulsively, my hands pulling and rubbing on his throbbing penis to lure more of his rich, creamy semen onto my tongue. His body quaked as he came for long minutes, filling my mouth until he spilled out of the sides of my lips. He made no sound, as unnaturally silent as he’d been during the fight.
I would’ve sucked him off for hours. I wanted to, but he put both hands on my shoulders and urged me away. I looked up into his heartrendingly gorgeous face, saw his eyes glittering in the semidarkness. He touched my lips with his thumb, smearing his semen over and around the swollen curves.