“Why do I like that?” I groaned. “Why—”
The tips of his fingers teased the crease between my cheeks and I shook in his arms. The pressure to come again was nearly painful and I put my teeth against his neck, hurting him, just so I hurt less.
He jerked against me, tipping his head, giving me more room to play.
“Harder,” he said. “Bite me harder.”
So I did.
“Fuck,” he groaned.
“I want—” I stopped, laughing, because I really didn’t know how to put all of this into words. How to make sense of it. There was a storm raging inside my skin.
“Tell me.”
“More. I want more. Your hands—”
“Where?”
I pushed my hips at him, hoping he’d get the message.
“Don’t tell me you’re shy?”
“Please…just…touch me.”
He kept one hand on my ass and shoved the other through the curls between my legs until he finally got his fingers inside my slit. His middle finger slid past my clit and I jumped in his arms, arching toward him, hoping to lure him back to my clit, but he wasn’t interested.
“I’m going to fuck you, baby,” he breathed against my neck. “With my hands. My tongue and then my cock.”
God, I was so wet. So wet. I bathed his fingers right there at the entrance of my body. But very suddenly this felt far too lopsided. It was the phone calls all over again. Him with all the cards, me panting for more. And he could do all those things to me, with his mouth and his tongue and his fingers and body. And I would let him. I wanted him so bad I could barely understand it. But there were things I wanted to do to him.
There was an equality in this that I needed. So much of this was wrong. So much.
But a little equality would make so much right.
I remembered what Tiffany said the other day outside her trailer—sometimes it felt good to be the one giving something.
“Stop,” I breathed.
“What?”
I pulled away, shoved myself back so I could get my hands between us. The flesh of his stomach was hot against my fingers as I shoved his shirt up and started to open the fly of his jeans.
“I want…” I shook my head, the short blond hair falling over my eyes.
“What?”
“I want to suck you. I want to put you in my mouth.”
From the book. The fucking stripper.
“So bad, Dylan. I want that so bad.” I nudged at him when he didn’t seem eager to move. He was watching me with those unreadable eyes, but I was burning too hot to wonder what he was thinking. “Get up,” I said. And he braced himself against the arms of the chair and pushed himself up. He grimaced as if it hurt.
“Are you okay?” I asked, reaching for his neck, which he held so stiffly.
“I’m good,” he said, standing up straight. Because of his height and how I was sitting, that rod in his pants was at eye level.
My fingers, thick and clumsy, fumbled, but I got the zipper open and then my hand was around his cock, pulling him free of his pants and the cotton of his boxers. He was huge in my hand. Wide and long, the head purple, nearly, and damp. I blew out a long breath, which feathered across his skin. He hissed and put a hand to my neck, cupping it in his palm, his thumb pressed against my pulse, as if he were feeling my heartbeat.
Anticipation stretched so thin between us, it could shatter like glass with the wrong move. And I was suddenly paralyzed with indecision. I didn’t know the right move from the wrong move and all that was pushing me along was instinct.
But maybe my instincts were as fucked up as I was.
“Go ahead, baby,” he said, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “Do whatever you want.”
Whatever I want? That was some big territory.
—