“And this one?” I don’t have to look—I feel her lips move over the one that’s lower, stretching from my pec to my shoulder. It’s an angel, a perpetual child with a smirking face and crooked halo.
“That’s for Benny. A kid I knew when I was twelve. He got mugged one night walking home. They hit him with a metal pipe—cracked his head. He died.”
Below the angel is a cursive G—she places a soft kiss beside it. “This is for your mom?”
I nod. Chelsea brushes her lips against the others—the scales of justice I got after law school, the dragon and roses I got after I lost my virginity, the deep-rooted tree I got in honor of the Judge, and about a dozen more.
She moves lower down to the crook of my elbow, the underside of my forearm. It tickles when she kisses it. “And this?”
It’s a spiral tribal design that winds around my arm—sharp swirls with jagged edges. I grin. “I just thought that one looked cool.”
I feel my dick softening inside her, but I have no desire to move. And Chelsea must feel the same, because she rubs her cheek across my pec, resting above my nipple. And her breath turns slow and even, exhaustion taking hold of us both, as as we slip into well-earned oblivion.
? ? ?
Sometime later, I become aware that her weight is missing, the heat from her lush, lithe body is absent. And there’s a strange dry, scratching sound that makes me think Cousin It tracked us down and is trying to push open the door with his rough paw. I stretch out my left hand, searching, but there’s only empty space beside me. I roll to my side and open my eyes.
Chelsea is in the brown cushioned chair by the window, legs tucked under her, a glow of moonlight behind her. She’s wearing my gray button-down shirt—and it’s never looked better. She’s watching me, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her hands busy in her lap.
Sketching.
Chelsea is drawing. Me.
“Am I gonna have to pay you a dime, Jack?” My voice is gravelly with sleep and sex.
She smiles. And it’s beautiful. “This one is on the house, Rose.”
Yeah. Time to remind her I’m definitely not a Rose. I throw back the covers, putting my bare-assness on full display. I sit up, swing around to sit on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor. I lower my hand, wrap it around my dick, and bring him back to life with just a few rough strokes. And Chelsea’s drawing suddenly stops short.
“I’ve never done an X-rated sketch. Are you auditioning to be my first?” she asks lightly.
“I wasn’t sure what the focus of the piece would be. I wanted to make sure it’s to scale.”
“That’s so helpful of you.”
“How about you? You in a helpful mood?”
There’s an edge to my voice that only I can hear. It’ll be dawn in a few hours. I don’t really know what happens then. But I’m almost desperate to feel her, everywhere, all at once. To not miss a thing or waste a minute—touch every fantasy. Because . . . this may be the only chance I’ve got.
She sets the pad of paper aside on the chair and comes to stand in front of me.
“I’m in the mood to make you feel good,” she says softly.
I rest my hands on her hips, pulling her to me, and press my forehead to her stomach.
“You already make me feel good,” I whisper hotly against her perfect skin.
Chelsea slides down to her knees in front of me. “Then let’s shoot for better than good.”
She leans forward, placing a warm kiss on the tip of my cock.
Oh Christ.
Her tongue peeks out, laving a circle around the head. And my heart goes berserk. She takes me in her mouth—hot and so wet. She slips down on me, as far as she can go, then slowly back up, making the shaft slick with her saliva. Then she grips me at the base, pumping firmly, while her mouth goes to work, sucking hard and fabulously. After a few minutes, I’m clenching my jaw, but can’t keep the low grunts at bay—Chelsea answers me with a pleasured hum that makes my balls ache. Then she releases me, looks up, takes my hand, and pushes it into her thick auburn locks.
“Show me what you like, Jake.”
Motherfucking god.
She goes back to working me over with her mouth, with her hand, her cheeks hollowing out. And it feels unreal. My hand flexes in her hair, guiding her up and down in my favorite rhythm. It makes me feel powerful . . . and at the same time completely at her mercy. The pressure builds, the blissful tension as her head bobs faster and I climb higher and higher.
With a guttural groan, I grip her hair and pull her off. “Get on the bed.” My voice is harsh. Desperate.
Chelsea climbs on beside me and I stand, yanking my shirt from her arms in one swift motion. Because it’s in my way—and I want to see. Everything. I hold her by the hips, my thumbs digging into the flesh of her perfect ass, conveying without words exactly how I want her.
On her hands and knees.