Hold Me Close - Talia Hibbert Page 0,51

she wondered: could she really need him this desperately?

Then she dragged the boxers down his muscular thighs, and saw the thick, dark length of his cock, and decided that yes, she fucking could.

She wrapped a hand around him, hummed a moan at the velvet feel of him, then squeezed. He was iron-hard. She could smell his skin, raw and natural and warm. She felt dizzy.

He slid a hand over her neck and said, almost absently, “You’re perfect.”

She scowled. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

A reluctant smile curving her lips, she leaned up and kissed him again. His cock in her hand, his tongue in her mouth, Ruth kissed and stroked and moaned and felt. From the energy pulsing in her clit, in her nipples, to the empty ache between her legs, to the scorching heat of his flesh against her palm.

He was vulnerable because of her. He was standing there with his jeans around his ankles, with his cock in her hand, ready to do whatever she wanted—to take whatever she wanted—and the thought tipped Ruth well past patience. She broke the kiss, ignoring his wistful moan, and sank to her knees.

Evan watched with lust in his eyes, his tongue sliding out to wet his lips. She’d expected him to offer token protests, to pretend she couldn’t want to swallow his cock whole, but of course he didn’t. Because he knew this was exactly what she wanted. He’d made sure.

She wondered if he also knew that she was embarrassingly aroused, her nipples tight and her pussy slick, just at the sight of him half-dressed before her.

Probably, she decided. A man couldn’t look like him and suffer from a lack of knowing.

She’d wanted to take her time. She’d wanted to trace her thumb over the fine veins mapping his rigid length, play with the pearlescent drop forming at its tip, feel the impossible velvet hardness against her cheek.

But then he pressed a hand to her face. He looked down at her with something far too soft in his eyes, and held her far too gently, his thumb tracing her cheekbone.

So she had to lean in, had to run the flat of her tongue along his length, from root to tip. And it worked. His hand slid back to her neck, and he groaned. His head fell back, and his eyes screwed shut. “Ruth,” he panted, his hips jerking. “Yes. God, yes.”

The sound of her name on his lips was easier to handle than the adoration in his eyes. She’d have to get used to the latter, she thought. But she was kind of looking forward to doing so.

I want to take everything you have to give, and I want to think that I deserve it.

She licked him again.

23

Evan had intended to come home and have a talk with Ruth. A mature, serious talk that culminated in him asking some schoolkid shit like, Will you be my girlfriend? and her laughing in his face but saying yes.

What good intentions he’d had. And now here he was, trying not to disgrace himself while she lapped pre-come from the swollen head of his cock.

He couldn’t quite feel bad about it.

Evan snatched in a breath as Ruth’s lips wrapped around his length, hot and soft and wet. Her tongue slid out to massage the underside of his erection, and then she sucked him slowly into her mouth. He forced his eyes open, even though sheer ecstasy made his lids heavy. She was too beautiful to miss.

Her hands were squeezing his thighs, her short nails digging into him. He didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all. Evan watched as his cock disappeared into her mouth, inch by inch, and felt the pull of her lips at the same time, and could have passed out from the pleasure. When he felt the impossible pressure of her throat, he almost choked.

Something drove him to press a hand to her neck, beneath her chin. He felt her muscles relax, expand as she swallowed him.

“Fuck,” he gritted out. “Holy shit, Ruth.”

She made a sound he couldn’t decipher, but when she looked up at him with dancing eyes, he knew she was laughing. Or trying to. She couldn’t quite manage it with his cock filling her mouth.

When her nose brushed against his belly, and she sucked in the last inch of him, Evan realised that he was biting his own fist hard enough to leave marks behind. He had to, just to maintain the last scraps of his control. To stop himself from bucking