Page 8 of Daring You

I mumble some kind of surprise—I think I do—but the heat of his lips, the silk and slide of them, turn every stiffened muscle of mine into supple, moldable clay, and I fold into his arms. One of his hands slides around my waist and pulls me closer, firmer, so there’s no question of how he feels.

And I can feel him. The hard ridge through his jeans, heating my abdomen despite the clothing in between, demanding my attention. Ben has me in a war, between his tongue and his dick, and I can’t decide which one I want to submit to first.

I move my lips in tandem with his, exploring with my tongue, grazing against his teeth and feeling his groans vibrate through my throat. I can’t believe it—can’t fathom that my dreams are coming true, that Ben actually wants me. He trails his hands down my body, my too-thin, weirdly tall, skeletal frame, and he’s touching it like it’s art. He grips my flat butt, squeezes like it’s as ripe as a peach, then lifts me so my legs wrap around his waist and I can pilfer his mouth further.

I want all of him. I want to memorize everything about his body that’s somehow in my hands, mine to control, mine to pleasure and savor and challenge.

He wants me. Ben Donahue wants me.

Ben peels our lips apart, his hot breath replacing the heat of his mouth. With viper reflexes, he grips my jaw between his thumb and forefinger and says, “This is how I want you to remember me. You’ll look back on this night, and you’ll remember how I stroked you, sucked on your clit, made you moan, made you mine. I want you to use that mind of yours to recall all of it. Every detail. I know you can.”

I want to say, huh? but his words hold way too much meaning for such a neanderthal response. He’s telling me something, or trying to, and I can’t decipher what it is. There’s an urgency in his stare, eerie and unsettling, because he never looks at me this way. Sure, he’s been impressed, even stunned by my wit sometimes, but he’s never held my chin like this, made me look upon him with such sobriety that it’s a wonder I still feel drunk on lust.

“Say yes, Astor.”

I swallow, but the grip he’s maintaining on my jaw is anything but frightening. “Yes.”

He won’t stop searching. “You mean it?”

“Yes. Yes, Ben. I’ve been wanting this forever. Wanting you for longer than that. I’m going to remember how I made you groan, how you begged for more, how I rode your dick so hard and wet and made you come.”

I don’t know how to do any of that and I blush so hard when I say it, but with his gaze going from earnest to dark with promise, I feel I’ve hit the nail on the head and gotten rid of whatever fear is driving him forward.

He quirks his lip. I know he likes challenges, dares even more so. Locke’s slipped up a few times and told me the messed up things he and his friends do just to pass the time. And I understand, in order to appeal to Ben, I have to be just as confident, just as up for anything, as he is. If it means saying words and pretending skills I possess none of, I figure that’s the least I can do to snag his interest.

“Show me,” he growls, and I go damp at the sound.

Just having him go hard in my presence is enough to saddle my confidence with a rocket ship into space. I slide down his body, out of his hold, and go at his jeans, unbuttoning them and pulling them down.

He smiles and hangs his arms at his sides, doing nothing to help. As if the big reveal of his dick is enough to make me gasp and sputter and clap. I muffle a snort at the thought, but he catches it and his smile wanes thin.

“No—it’s not, I just…” I lick my lips, marveling at how easily I can go from sex kitten to awkward aardvark. “Had a thought. It’s nothing. Completely unrelated to—”

“Dropping my pants is making you have unrelated thoughts?”

“No!” Am I ever fucking my dream moment up. “I…if I told you, I’d have to explain, and it’s only going to make this worse…” I lick my lips again.

His pupils dilate at the movement. “I can tell you exactly where my thoughts are. I want those lips on my dick. Right now.”

My lower lip curves at his command, as if it’s already curled around him, and my teeth bite down like they can’t contain themselves a second longer until my mouth is filled.

I get back to business. Pulling his briefs down, his dick spears forward, and yes, it’s impressive enough to deserve applause. I don’t gasp, though. My eyes don’t go wide at the sight. I’m Sex Kitten Astor. I’m above all that. Instead, I wrap my hand around and squeeze, intensely focused on how soft he is, how impossibly silky something so hard can be.

Ben throws his head back and groans, his hips meeting my movements on instinct. I enjoy the power, the unobtrusive realization that I hold this man’s pleasure in my hands. When I add my mouth to it, his shudder is felt all the way down my arms and into my bones.

“That’s amazing. Keep going,” he murmurs.

I smile at how easily I can make him buckle, how well I’m doing despite my lack of experience. How much I need to thank my roommate and banana Youtube videos for the ways my fingers grip, how to use the natural lubricant of my saliva. I’m cocky now, loving how the firmer I squeeze, the more he moans. I use the rush to my benefit, make sure he’s looking, and open my mouth wider to take all of him in.

I gag. Sputter. Choke. And—oh, God—cough.

“Astor? Astor, you okay?”

He bends to my level, but I’m still coughing, fist to my mouth, eyes scrunched shut because while I can hear his concern, all I’m feeling is my blood moving utter embarrassment through my veins.

“Hey. Easy, there.”

Something cold hits my hand, and I peek enough to see Ben’s gotten a bottle of water out of my mini fridge and unscrewed it.

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