Runaway Wolfes of Manhattan Three - Helen Hardt Page 0,67
my tongue over a coppery nipple.
It hardened beneath my lips, which turned me on even more.
He responded to me.
To my touch.
I continued my assault on his chest, moving toward his abdomen, sliding my tongue over each indentation of his sixpack. God, he was magnificent. And God, I loved him so much.
His triangle of curls beckoned, and I dived into them, inhaling his musky and masculine scent. I was a mere inch from his cock.
That beautiful cock, a shade darker than the rest of his fair skin, and darker still where blue veins marbled through it.
His head was a shiny knob, and a drop of fluid glistened at the tip.
I gathered my courage and licked it off as he shuddered beneath me.
“Fuck, Riley. Fuck.” He squeezed his eyes closed.
“No,” I said. “Open your eyes. Watch me. Please.”
His eyelids fluttered and then he opened his gorgeous blue eyes. “Whatever you want, baby. Though if I watch, I might not last long. Hell, I’m not going to last long anyway.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I swiped my tongue over his cock head once more. “We have all the time in the world.”
And we did, as far as I was concerned. Matt and I were in a time warp, and time had no meaning. If he didn’t last long, we’d simply begin again.
And again.
And again.
For this was what I wanted.
He whimpered softly as I moved down from his dick to his muscular thighs. I kissed them, caressed them, appreciated them with my gaze.
Such hard, firm, muscular thighs.
I moved downward still, kissing his knees and calves and then the instep to his foot. I kissed each toe, and then massaged his feet lightly with my hands.
“Damn, Riley.”
I didn’t reply, simply kissed back up the other leg and then parted his legs slightly so I could settle between them.
His dick throbbed in an invisible rhythm. I felt its warmth even before I touched it.
So warm and inviting.
This was love. Loving all of a person, wanting all of a person, pleasing all of a person. Not just the physical but the emotional. The spiritual.
I took him between my lips and sucked just the head.
He sucked in a breath. “Fuck. Riley. Fuck.”
Warmth coursed through me. Pleasing someone you loved—there was nothing like it. It was the ultimate high. The ultimate reward. Giving pleasure instead of receiving it.
I trailed my lips over his shaft down to his balls, which were already scrunched toward his body. I inhaled their muskiness, kissed the soft hair on them, and then sucked one into my mouth.
He groaned, shivering against my flesh.
I released his testicle and sucked on the other, and then I turned back to his dick and stroked its length with my tongue. Its warmth and its miniscule movement, the blood rushing through it pulsing lightly against my mouth.
Until I reached the head, and I sucked all of him into my mouth, as far back to my throat as I could.
Which wasn’t far, but that was okay. This was about both of us, not just him. What he wanted and what I wanted, and I knew he’d be pleased no matter what.
I pulled back and sucked him again, and then again, until—
“Riley, stop. Stop now. I don’t want to come yet.”
I was tempted. Oh, so tempted to keep going, to take the ultimate control over him, but this wasn’t just about me.
It was also about him.
I let go of his dick and then met his fiery gaze.
“Take off those panties and sit on me. Take me into your body.”
I was ready. My fingers were under the waistband…
And then I remembered what in my passion I’d forgotten.
The burns. The scars. The evidence of my self-mutilation.
I couldn’t.
“Now,” Matt said, “or I’ll rip them off you. Right in two, the way you ripped those sheets.”
“No, please…”
But it was too late. He’d already torn them from my body.
My pubic hair had grown in, but not enough to completely hide what I’d done.
Matt’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, Riley. No.” His voice was laced with sadness. With pity.
“No!” I cried. “Don’t pity me. Don’t ever pity me!” Tears welled in the bottoms of my eyes.
He reached toward me. “Honey, those cigarettes. I never saw you smoke.”
I slinked away, curled into a fetal position on the other side of the bed.
His arms wrapped around me, and although they warmed me, still I shivered with the chills knifing through me.
And I wondered how a man like Matteo Rossi could love such an object of pity.