Page 76 of Clean Point

‘Prove it,’ he challenged, his hand realigning at my entrance. I wasted no time pressing down, and this time, instead of moving away, his fingers pressed inside of me. He forced me to work, making me fuck myself on him.

I opened my eyes and held his gaze, his eyes dark and challenging. ‘Prove you can take me, Scottie. Show me how good you’ll be for me.’

I ground on his fingers, low and deep, my pussy aching and stretching to take them. I couldn’t stop the loud moans escaping my mouth, his name, every curse under the sun following it. His other hand found my mouth, closing over it to muffle the noise.

‘Keep going,’ he demanded as if it was something I could control. I felt him working his fingers inside of me, pressing and massaging against my G-spot as wave after wave of pleasure crashed against me. I moved faster and faster, growing greedier for the satisfaction that was building.

‘You are so fucking beautiful like this,’ he crooned, the mood changing. My attention pulled to his face again, finding his eyes soft, the smile on his lips one of disbelief. His hand lifted from my mouth, wiping a strand of hair from my face. The moment was delicate, like the mask had slipped, and I was seeing the smallest hint of what was hiding behind. It only made me want him more.

I’d never felt like this for anyone. All the hook-ups and flings; they had nothing on Nico Kotas and this cupboard. Not from the way he was touching me, his obvious need, and how fucking special he made me feel. Like I was made for him, a precious thing he wanted not to keep or lock away, but to let shine.

Then he did the most despicable thing. He pulled away, leaving me a whimpering mess. His fingers removed, and I almost screamed at him, would’ve done so, if that dark look hadn’t returned to his face, challenging me not to say another word.

His fingers rose to my mouth. ‘Clean,’ he commanded. ‘And taste.’

My lips opened, mouth taking whatever he gave me without question. As he instructed, I greedily tasted myself on his fingers. He watched me, his breathing deep, lips parted on a breath. Then he rewarded me with the sight of him on his knees before me.

He kneeled in between my legs, his hands underneath my dress, easing the material up and out of the way. He unwrapped me. Slowly. Painfully. One look at his face and his devilish grin told me it was on purpose.

‘Please,’ I begged, his hand snaking around my right leg, pulling it over his shoulder, opening my legs for him.

He looked up at me, his eyes hungry. ‘Are you going to beg me to taste you? Are you going to beg like a needy brat?’

‘Yes. Please, I need …’

‘What do you need?’

‘I need your mouth.’

‘And …’ His spare hand rose up to my pussy, trailing again between my legs, teasing. ‘Where do you want my mouth?’

I almost cried out as he leaned forward, kissing my thighs, trailing his lips, biting and grazing his teeth on the sensitive skin. My hand found his hair, fingers knotting.

‘Show me where you need my mouth, Scottie. Use me.’ He no sooner said the words than I pulled his hair, moved his head to my centre, and pressed him to my pussy. He didn’t need to be told twice, his tongue licking, mouth sucking, my hips grinding against his face as I tried to open my legs as wide as I possibly could for him.

My eyes rolled back, moans escaping me, his name delicious on my tongue, his hair between my fingers. Pleasure built higher as his finger joined his mouth, pushing hard back inside me, moving with my hips. I could feel him moan against me, the heat of his lips, the grip of his other hand on my hip, holding me close to him. I gripped the nearest surface, holding on like I was holding onto the edge of release that was building, the tightness squeezing between my legs as I worked against his fingers.

He didn’t stop when I whispered to him that I was close; instead he intensified his efforts, just as hungry for my orgasm as I was. I was desperate and close and needy, living for every lick and suck and grind. And then it crashed into me, my legs weakening under my weight, but he held me up with his shoulders and the support of his free hand, lapping up every moment of my orgasm, feeling me grow tight against his fingers.

When he pulled away, his grey eyes were incredibly bright in the dim light, his lips pulled into a slack, satisfied smile as he said, ‘I’m going to need you to do that again.’

33

Scottie

History Of Man – Maisie Peters

There was something cooling in the June air, a breeze coming from the Thames. After the small supply closet, followed by a quick escape through the busy ballroom, I was more than thankful for the cool wind on my rosy cheeks. Nico had disappeared to find the valet and get us out of there. We’d both agreed we’d had enough for one night. Enough small talk and sucking up to people with their father’s and grandfather’s name.

I hadn’t had a chance to overthink what had happened in the cupboard, but now I was alone outside the gala, I had plenty of time for it.

Nobody could know. That was the one rule of all of this going on between us. They could speculate, take photos and use them to sell their cheap trainers and gym clothes. That was going to happen whether we were really together or not. But they couldn’t know the truth of it.

The second they did, I feared they’d strip me of a part of myself I wasn’t willing to give away or sell any longer. I’d never been in love, always playing fast and loose with my reputation because there was nothing at stake, nothing to protect or to keep just for myself. But now there was Nico, and my heart that beat too quickly when he was around, and the growing anxiety that it was bound to get broken with so much at risk.

It wasn’t only my reputation at stake anymore, something I treated with frivolity, used as a weapon. It was my heart.

‘Scottie.’ I knew that accent. Knew immediately whose voice said my name. I’d heard it a thousand times. I’d heard it in my old kitchen, telling me not to overreact. I’d heard it on the phone on the beach in Rhodes. I’d heard it growing up, yelling at me to get my serve right. I turned too quickly and found my father. His dark brown eyes stared down, thin lips pressed into a thin, assessing line as he took me in. After two years of only seeing me in tabloid photos paired with scandalous headlines, stumbling out of clubs in the arms of strange men, me wearing skirts inches too short or dresses too revealing, it must’ve caught him off guard.

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