Page 101 of At Her Pleasure
“So why haven’t you played with anyone here?”
“It doesn’t fit the rest of the house, the whole picture.”
“Of course it does. It’s all you. It fits together, if anyone looks deeper.”
Her phone buzzed. A continuous vibration, so a call, not a text. Her expression was thoughtful, a reaction to his words, as she pulled it out of her waistband and connected. Her eyes filled with fondness, lazy humor. “Why are you calling me? Lawrence should have given you three orgasms by now, before you deigned to fuck him into a post-coital coma.”
She rolled her eyes and moved to the chair to sit down. “Okay, four. Whatever, you boastful bitch.”
Mick followed her movement as she adjusted her knees outward, the skirt climbing her thighs. Her nipples jutted against the tank’s clingy fabric. One bare foot brushed the base of the chair. She propped the other on the edge of the seat, knee bent, her elbow on the small desk as she held the phone in that hand. Some of her brown curls had fallen over one eye, so she studied him through that curtain. The lamplight gave her gaze a demonic reddish cast most subs probably told themselves was contacts.
Cyn dipped her chin downward. An unmistakable order.
“He’s here with me,” she said. “No, I don’t want company. He wants to be buried in my backyard. Do you think I should grant his request?”
As she asked that, he dropped to one knee in front of her. She grasped his hair, tugging his face to her thigh. She bent to bite his ear, pricking it with her canines before she let it go and brushed her mouth over his cheek.
The chair had rocked and scraped across the floor from the collision of their two bodies. Unlike the cross and bench, it wasn’t anchored. He slid his hands along her thighs to the back slats and wrapped his hands around the wood, so he could make sure it didn’t topple with her in it.
“No, we’re fine. Seriously. I’ve just told him to eat my pussy, so this call isn’t lasting long. He has a clever mouth, and he knows what to do with it.”
The command had his fingers constricting on the chair, knuckles pressing against the curves of her buttocks. As he put his mouth on her inner thigh, he could smell her arousal. It stiffened his cock, rigid need gripping his lower body.
He took his time, though. She was right. He did know how to use his mouth, but it had never been as important to use it in a way to please a woman as it was right now.
To please this specific woman, which meant a certain learning curve. A man who didn’t slow down for that curve could fuck up, spin out and crash.
And hell, the trip was worth hitting the brakes.
She felt the same. When she put her hand back in his hair, wrapped and pulled, hard, she wasn’t pulling him closer. She wasn’t going to let him do this without reminding him she had every right to hurt him while he did.
Her skirt pushed against his forehead as he worked into that heated, dark area. When he reached her labia, he used all parts of his mouth to learn their texture, softness and taste. He played his lips and tongue over her clit, and she braced her foot on his back. She didn’t put the sole on the bandages, but on a group of welts left by the cane. As she pushed down, rubbed her heel against them, the pain went right to his cock.
She couldn’t have paid him a greater compliment, believing in his ability to endure whatever she did to him while he gave her pleasure.
He covered her with his mouth, sucking, nibbling and stroking with more focused intent. Thrust. Flick. Tease.
Her voice was getting a satisfying strained note. He wasn’t following much of the conversation anymore. That wasn’t his job. He did catch the last part, though.
“Go fuck Lawrence some more if you’re getting hot. That’s why his ass is there. To serve yours.”
The phone dropped the few inches to the floor. She found his clenched hand and gripped it, another anchor and connection. “Fuck me with that beautiful mouth, Mick. Let me feel your teeth.”
He did, not too much, not until she said so. “Harder. Bite my clit.”
He did and a gasp broke from her throat, a raw noise. She pulled harder on his hair, lifted her foot from his back, then brought her heel back down, a thump against tender skin. She kept doing it, moving against his mouth with her clit clamped in his teeth, his tongue playing over the succulent flesh. She wrapped her leg around his back, her other hand coming to his neck, fingers digging into his nape.
She’d donned one of her claws. He had no idea when she’d put it on, but the rough sound that came from his throat was gratitude. She raked it across the back of his neck, and then dug it into his shoulder as she started to climax. The cry of pleasure that broke from her, uncontrolled, a free fall with her in his hands, in his care, was a sound he’d hold onto forever, and strive to hear again and again. Any time during the short time they had that she’d allow it, and he’d fight for those chances.
He kept his weight back against the chair’s pull, his hands sure and firm, even if his arms trembled with the effort. His cock could have knocked a baseball out of a stadium.
She worked herself against his mouth well after she was done, testing his resolve, his ability to hold position. The skirt folds didn’t allow him the gorgeous view of her upper body rolling over those waves, but he could imagine.
It was probably ten minutes before she stopped, moving the foot to his chest to push him back. She sat up and adjusted her skirt. Her nipples, still prominent, made his mouth hunger to suck.
“Stand up and take off the shirt. Let me see you.”
He obeyed, and her lip curled, a sign of appetite, as she moved her eyes over his shoulders and chest, down his abdomen until she stopped and studied his size, straining against denim. “Unbutton the top and push down the zipper. Slow.”