Burn Down the Night (Everything I Left Unsaid #3)- Molly O'Keefe Page 0,71
away. I was a fly in his web and he was coming for me—I knew it. But I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I didn’t want to do anything to stop it.
“And you feel so good on my dick. So wet and so hot. And when you come…” He stopped for a second, breathing hard, his face flushing. His chest under those tattoos flushing. If I touched him now, he’d be so hot. Sweat would drip from our bodies.
“Yeah,” he breathed, his eyes closed. And I could tell he was getting close. So close and I don’t know why I moved. Why I did it. But I pushed off the wall and crawled up the bed between his legs.
“What—”
I didn’t give him a chance to argue or push me away or make some kind of bossy command. I slipped my lips over the head of his dick and he groaned, low in his gut like he approved on a visceral level.
“Jesus, fuck, yes.”
He was so hard against my lips and I took him deeper, tasting the salt of his come and his sweat against my tongue. He put his hand on my head, pushing me deeper like he knew that was what I liked, and I did. I liked it so much.
His cock buried in my throat, his hands tangled in my hair, he started to come. Arching up into my face.
“Yeah, oh fuck. Take it. Take it all,” he groaned and shook and pushed and retreated only to push back in deeper and I took it all. His hot salty come spurting down my throat.
When he was done I slid off him, and he jerked and twitched at the movement. I imagined him so sensitive to me that my touch hurt and I wanted to explore that. I wanted to push that hurt into pleasure and back again.
But instead I sat back and wiped my burning, stretched lips. The inside of my bottom lip was raw from where I’d tucked my teeth.
He would like my teeth, I thought. Next time—
I jumped up off the bed, or I tried to. He grabbed my hand, wincing as he sat up.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m…” going to go finger myself raw in the other room. “I’ll sleep on the love seat.”
“Why?” he asked. He was all undone from the orgasm. He was bleary-eyed, his dark hair had flopped over his forehead, and his mouth was slack and sweet in that dark beard and I wanted to press my lips to his.
We’ve never kissed.
All this shit between us and we never once kissed.
He leaned in like he was having the same thought and I pulled back. Some latent misguided effort to protect myself. To preserve what I could of me.
“Okay,” he whispered, his breath all over my face. “No kissing. But let me…” His hand touched my tummy through my shirt and I felt every muscle contract. My stomach, my legs, my back—everything tightened.
I sucked in a breath and didn’t let it out.
“Baby, let me touch you,” he whispered. I said nothing. I didn’t nod or flinch or even breathe.
If I opened my lips I would say no. I would say don’t. Because that was what I was good at doing. Denying what I wanted. Making myself unhappy.
So I bit my lips shut, keeping myself silent.
And he took it as permission and I let him.
His fingertips slid under my shirt, my skin painfully alive to his touch. I turned my head away because somehow closing my eyes wasn’t enough.
Those rough fingertips slipped under the elastic waist of my yoga pants, over my tummy, and I shook at the feeling.
“I can feel how hot you are from here,” he breathed. “How wet.”
“Don’t—” I said, hard and fast but then stopped.
“You want me to stop?” he asked.
I shook my head, still not looking at him. “I want you to not talk.”
“So you can pretend it’s someone else?” he asked, laughter and something darker all over his words. Something a little hurt maybe or a little angry.
I looked at him, my eyes meeting the dark blaze of his. “Just…get me off,” I said.
“Your wish,” he muttered and that finger was not so gentle now. His touch didn’t make me tremble, it made me shake. I wanted to grab his shoulder with my hand but I didn’t. I was there, up on my knees, his hand in my pants, and I tried to be as alone as possible.