I don’t need to push her down on my dick. She swallows me eagerly. But I push anyway, reaching down with my hand to cup my balls. And then I push those up into her chin as she takes me all the way down her throat.
I hold her there, choking and gasping, until she presses both hands on my thighs and pushes me back. She looks up at me, sucking in air. Eyes trained on mine. Drool running down her chin.
She grabs the drool in her palm and slaps it around my cock, pumping me in long up-and-down twisting strokes. And then she leans forward, presses her mouth to the tip of my cock, and kisses it, spitting out more lubrication at the same time.
That is a move I have dreamed about dozens of times over the past year. Dozens of times. She is the only woman who kisses my cock that way.
I pick her up, twirl her around, and then bounce her on the mattress so her head is hanging over the edge.
“Ready?” I ask her.
“So ready,” she says.
I ease forward towards her wide-open mouth. I can’t see her eyes, and that’s the only thing I hate about fucking her throat this way. But I can almost see her goddamned tonsils. So, good enough.
Her tongue flattens against my shaft as I enter her mouth. Her lips seal against my skin. I hold her face with both hands and… I fuck her. I fuck her until she is gagging on her own spit. I fuck her until her hands are pressing so hard against my thighs, I can’t ignore her plea for release.
I come down her throat as she gags, then swallows. Once, twice. Three times her throat muscles caress my cock.
When I’m done, I pull out, grab her legs, spin her around, and sink my face down into her pussy.
She writhes beneath me. Her back arches and bends. Her whole body contorts as I lick and suck her until she, too, has no choice but to let go.
She comes in my mouth. Her orgasm is wave after wave of spasms and creamy liquid. And once I have it all, once I’m drunk and intoxicated on her climax, I crawl up her body, my cock slipping between her legs.
And then we truly begin to fuck.
Chapter Sixteen - Quin
Friday night, everything’s cool. I do the usual club and drinks thing with Robert. He goes home with some girl he’s never met before and will probably never see again. I pretend like this is fun and go home alone.
There’s about ten minutes at the end of my day where I wish things were different.
Saturday, I start wondering where she is and what’s she’s doing.
Thinking about Rochelle has been forbidden for the past year, so it’s weird to allow myself this luxury. Before last week thinking about Rochelle was something to avoid. It would inevitably lead to that familiar dull ache in my chest that would turn into sadness and despair if I let it fester too long.
But now she’s back. I have her back. I still can’t believe how quick life changes. So I do think about her. And Adley. What did they have for breakfast? What did they do all day?
I hardly ever see Smith and Chella on the weekends and I’ve gotten used to no Club and no Bric, even though that Club was my life for more than a decade.
I don’t call him. I don’t call her, either. And I get through Saturday by going into the office and working on a proposal for a new client who came in last week. And then I hit the gym for a few hours and go home with take-out Chinese.
But by Sunday morning, I’m hopeless. The entire time I run steps over at Coors Field, they’re on my mind. Adley and her big blue eyes and little chubby face. Rochelle and her curvier new sexy body. How much she’s changed. Her hair is longer, her tits bigger, her hips wider. And by the time eight AM rolls around I’m sweaty as fuck, my legs are aching, and I’ve imagined a million ways this can go wrong and only one way this can go right.
When I get home I shower, make a protein shake, and wish it was summer so I could go outside and sit on the terrace. It’s not snowing today but it’s gray and dim. I need a little sunshine in my life.
By noon I’m regretting my decision to stay home tonight. What the hell was I thinking? I almost call Bric to see what he’s up to, but decide that’s probably a bad idea. He’ll be at the Club. He’s always at the Club. Nothing about that guy’s schedule ever changes. He is the definition of habit.
By six PM I’m counting the hours until Smith shows up in the morning.
What a sad life it is when a Monday morning coffee visit from Smith Baldwin is the highlight of my weekend.
It’s been like this for a while now, though. I’ve been like this for a while now.
How long should I punish her? How long do I refuse to let her in? How long do I have to torture myself in order to trust her again?
I almost want to call her up. See if her weekend has been spent the same way. Has she been sitting around feeling sad? Has she been thinking about me too?
Are we in fucking high school or what?
By nine, I’m sitting on my couch staring at the clock over the fireplace. It’s modern and artsy. A chrome thing with a second hand. Which I watch, relentlessly, as it sweeps around the center point, counting off minutes.
Minutes that turn into hours of me sitting here alone in the silence. No lights on except the ones pouring in through the two-story walls of glass from outside.
At ten minutes to midnight, I give in.
Did I ever think I wouldn’t?
I drive over to LoDo, which is still pretty busy for this late on a Sunday, and park in my designated spot between Rochelle’s Lexus and Bric’s BMW.
I have to think about that for a second. Take a moment to wonder how I feel about him being here on my night. Reevaluate how I imagined she spent the weekend.
Was he here the whole time? Did they just spend two days together? Alone?
I’m just about to start the engine and leave when I make myself be rational.
Bric will stay with her. He doesn’t want her for himself, but he does want her. So he will stay. And he’s not a thinker, like me. He doesn’t dwell on shit. He gives in to his wants and needs and just goes for it.
So if this bothers me, I’ll need to be the one who takes care of it. Who sets things straight. He never will.
I get out of the car, close the door, and call for the elevator with my code. The doors open immediately, then close after I step in, and eight seconds later I’m in the loft.
It’s quiet and dark, except for soft light flowing out of Adley’s room down the long, wide hallway. Her barn doors are open just enough to let the glow escape.
The doors to the master bedroom are closed.
They’re in bed together.
I glance at the kitchen as I walk by and see the remnants of dinner.
They ate together.