Page 41 of Loving Smoke

I leaned against him unable to protest. So much for my criminal analysis—my political science teacher would be so disappointed.

I didn’t completely remember climbing the steps to Smoke’s second floor apartment, but I do remember us tearing at each other’s clothes, him turning on the water in the stall shower, then hoisting me up and pressing my back against the tile wall.

My legs automatically twisted around his waist and a few minutes later he drove his rock hard cock into my needy pussy. He boosted me higher digging his fingers into my ass cheeks as his hips relentlessly pounded into me. I circled my arms around his neck dragging him closer wanting to feel every part of him. The angle of our bodies had him in the perfect position and when my clit began to pulse the sensation filled me from head to toe. So intoxicating and pure and I never wanted it to end.

He leaned his forehead against mine, his breathing raw and labored. I slipped from his hold, then slid down his body marveling at his size close up.

Grinning up at him, I fisted his length. “Now it’s your turn.”

I worked him from root to tip, then swallowed him whole. Tasting myself on him was a whole new experience making me lightheaded and giddy. He rested his palm on my head keeping rhythm with his hips as I reached around and grabbed onto his glorious, firm ass cheeks. I squeezed and he flinched growing larger around my lips.

“Deeper, harder, squeeze me with your lips,” he panted out, then slapped his palms against the tile. “Fuck, that’s perfect.”

A few more strokes and he pressed his forehead against the wall. “I’mma blow, babe,” he said as a warning, but I was too invested, too involved in making this the best blow job he ever received.

A second later he exploded in my mouth and I sucked him dry, loving the power and complete control I had over this dominant male. How easy it was to make him mine. To convince myself we were both somewhere else in a different time and place—even if only for a short time.

16

Fuck me, but I could’ve stayed in that shower a lot longer. When Marisol slid down my wet body and sucked me deep, swear to fuck, my eyes crossed. Sure, I’d had plenty of blow jobs. The first at twelve from a hooker I convinced I was sixteen. Being tall had its advantages, but that was just the first of many, yet . . . corny as it sounded, Marisol’s trusting, almost naive ways amped me up way more.

I had no fuckin’ clue where this was going or even if it would go past today, but I didn’t care. Thankfully, Blood took off for the day, so he wasn’t around giving me the fisheye. Plus, I didn’t feel like listening to him tell me this was a bad idea. Cause I already knew it.

After we toweled off, I tried to coax Marisol into my bed, but she insisted we eat. I was pretty hungry, but I would’ve easily put food on hold if it meant sinking into her sweet body.

Although when she began cooking again the tantalizing aroma had my greedy stomach growling. In no time, she had the sauce done, pasta cooked and plated. I nabbed a bottle of wine from behind the bar and we ate at one of the raised tables in the VIP area.

I poured the wine and she held up her glass. “Here’s to . . .”

“Good food.” I finished the toast cause I was kinda afraid of what she might say and I sure couldn’t give the toast floating around in my brain. “Here’s to getting down and dirty with the one woman I have no business being with.”

“Is it any good?” I asked after she took a sip.

She nodded to my glass. “Taste it, see what you think.”

“I’m a shot and beer guy.” I shrugged. “I don’t know shit about wine.”

“It’s very good. Perfect for what we’re eating. Good body, juicy finish.”

Again, I kept my filthy mouth shut.

“Strange being here all by ourselves.” She motioned around the empty room.

“Like our own private space.” My stomach growled again and she laughed.

“Eat.” She motioned to the food. “Before your stomach goes crazy.”

I didn’t waste any time forking the pasta drenched in sauce into my mouth. “Fuckin’ delicious, babe,” I said around another mouthful. “What kinda sauce is this again?”

“Pesto sauce. It’s very simple. You just chop the nuts, basil, and parmesan cheese with some olive oil and voila.”

“After eating takeout and the bar food we serve here every night, this is amazing.”

When Smoke mentioned the wine I almost slipped reciting how Chianti is made only in a specific part of Tuscany in the mountain-air-cooled hills between Siena and Florence. Knowledge learned thanks to a level one sommelier course I took last summer.

I forced myself to concentrate on the food and not watch this force of a man across from me. Leading Smoke on and even having sex with him was the plan, but I hadn’t anticipated having sex multiple times in one day or multiple orgasms. I’d convinced myself I could stay detached although the multiple orgasms were weakening me.

Treating him like the enemy and not being tempted proved harder than I imagined, because I hadn’t figured in his rough charm and overall sexiness. There would be no future with this man beyond the facade I was selling, and I certainly should’ve kept my feelings at bay, but I didn’t and now . . .

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