Page 45 of Bullet

This isn’t me. I’m bold and fearless when I have to be, but it’s an act. I give the impression of ice and hard edges in order to keep the soft parts of me safe. I’m not really bold. I’m not actually brave. But it’s not like I can just run back to my room like a scared little mouse. I can’t just pretend this never happened. If I’d wanted to do that, I would have uttered an apology and turned and left the second I realized that there was no fight going on. I wouldn’t have stood there gaping. Staring.Wanting.

“Take off your shirt.”

“What?”

It’s not like this soft, worn t-shirt stretched tight over his bulging arms and muscular chest is hiding much of anything at all, but if we’re doing this,we’re doing it.

His eyes never leave my face as he debates with himself. He slowly lifts his arm overhead and grabs the back of his shirt, pulling it up and away. It looked like it was straining over his body, but it comes away like it’s soft and oversized.

My mouth goes dry at the sight of those chiseled muscles, his defined chest, cut abs, and all his bronzed skin. He doesn’t appear to be a stranger to the sun, as I glimpse the paler band of skin where his jeans have ridden low. I know I should keep my eyes on his face, but I have trouble tearing them away from the carved boxy abs.

His body is what you’d expect from a soldier and a hard man. His skin is littered with scars, though most of them are small and silvery. There’s nothing defined or huge, where real damage could have been done.

“If you’re looking for bullet holes, there’s a scar along my left thigh, and a wicked one on the back of my shoulder.”

My face. “I was looking to make sure you had all your organs. Kidneys and whatnot.”

“Organs?”

“Just wanted to know what you might be worth on the black market.”

He’s sitting in the fucking leather recliner, with his jeans undone and his cock pulled out, thickly muscled body on display like a god of lust, but he throws his head back and laughs loudly.

“Shhh! You might wake up Willa!”

He sobers instantly. “And then this would all be over.”

“Yes, because I’d kill you myself.”

Willa sleeps with earbuds in, and if the fucking apocalypse happened, it probably wouldn’t wake her up, but my luck seems to be terrible.

I sit down on the couch and shamelessly eye-fuck Bullet’s chest, lingering on every muscle, every scar, every exquisite detail. “Touch yourself.” It’s more like a puff of air, not some imperious command, but he obeys.

He wraps his big hand around his thick, veiny shaft, gathering up the beads of precum to lubricate his palm on the way down and back up. His eyes flutter shut and his lips part slightly at the pleasure.

This is the most indecent, craziest experience of my life, and there’s no way I want it to be over.

There are more shadows than light, but that just makes his cock look like a work of art. Dicks aren’t pretty, at least I never thought they could be, but I’m willing to allow that I could change my mind.

As new beads of precum form and slip over the swollen head before Bullet’s hand can reach it, I wonder what it would be like to lap it up. I’m not going to kid myself that I’d be good at giving head. I probably couldn’t even get my lips wrapped around him properly.

He keeps working himself with his hand clasped tight around his shaft, a soft groan tearing loose from this throat. It’s the same noise I heard earlier, when I thought he was being held captive.

I guess he was, but not the way I expected.

His breathing increases as he tightens his fist over the head and passes it down, before surging back up and doing it again. I watch his abs bunch and tighten, his pecs leap, his shoulders draw in and forward.

His jaw tightens. Mine does the same as I bite down on a whimper. It takes everything I have not to spread my legs right there on the couch and glide my hand down my pajama bottoms. The silk sleep pants are stuck to me, soaked by my arousal. I know that if I stood up, there would probably be a visible wet spot on the front or the back.

I should feel red hot with shame at that, but all I feel is the white heat of need.

I could tell him to stop, and he would. He’d hold his hand around the base of his thick cock while I stripped off my pajama bottoms and climbed on top of him, bare, slick, and ready.

I don’t realize I’ve closed my eyes until I see myself doing it, taking him inch by inch, his cock so thick I’d have to be careful. It would hurt, but not worse than the ravenous ache at the core of me. I wouldn’t stop until I took all of him, all of me spread so painfully wide. My legs around his thick, powerful thighs. My pussy around his cock. I’d sink down until my tender skin hit the harsh zipper of his jeans.

In my head, he’d lift me up, kick those jeans off, and pin me to the wall, burying himself to the hilt, fucking me so hard I’d feel his balls slap against me with every stroke.

I jerk my eyes open, desperate to escape that fantasy. It’s bad enough that this is already happening.With the man who’s going to be my client. Just last week, I would have had more reasons than that, but I’ve realized how wrong I was. Now, it’s just the thin but rigid line of professionalism that stands between us. A line I can’t cross, even if I want to.

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