Page 37 of Long Way Down

“God,” she panted down at the floor. She caught glimpses of his chin and hands, one denim-clad knee braced between her bound ankles. He fucked her with rhythmic stabs of his tongue, and she chased them, wanting more, clenching deeper inside where he couldn’t reach. The room filled with the harsh rasp of her breathing, and the quiet, wet sounds of his mouth working against her, winding the tension tighter and tighter in the pit of her stomach, his attention nowhere near enough to send her over the edge.

She closed her eyes again, living in the moment, concentrating on the sensation, trying to enjoy it for what it was without begging for more like she longed to. Without sight, her perception of the physical heightened: her nails catching at the wood of the counter, the slick-soft texture of his tongue darting in and out, in and out; the firm press of his thumbs, the hot huff of his breath on her taint. He was sloppy and insistent, but on purpose; it was an intentional messiness, rather than the fumbling of a boy. He seemed like a kid most of the time, but like this, when he was touching her…

Unbidden, an image of Tobias flashed in her mind. The artfully-tousled too-long hair, the coffee-brown eyes, the ratty sweater with the sleeves pushed up; traces of blue paint in his nail beds. The way he’d looked at her, that softly-radiating intensity out of place given their conversation.

Would he do this, too? Get on his knees and worship her with his mouth? Take her apart a piece at a time until she was a trembling wreck?

The tongue withdrew from inside her and two fingers pressed in, snug together, a slow, steady press all the way in; knuckles bumped her entrance and nerve bundles lit up inside.

Melissa opened her eyes on a gasp, clenching hard around those long, callus-tipped fingers. The voice that spoke from between her legs was rough, heated with arousal; it could have belonged to anyone.

“Take your tits out,” it demanded, as the fingers withdrew nearly all the way and thrust back in. And again. And again, setting up a rhythm. “I wanna watch ‘em while you come on my hand.”

Her hands were shaking, clumsy in her haste to comply. She tugged her shirt up, clingy fabric catching under her arms. Getting it off and unfastening her bra seemed like a lot of work, suddenly, and would require more coordination than she currently possessed. She settled for dragging the straps off her shoulder, under her sleeves, and tugging the cups and band down around her waist, so her breasts spilled out and dangled free, nipples pebbling up tight in the faint chill of the kitchen.

“Good girl,” the voice purred, praise going straight to the place where fingers thrust back in hard with a wet squelch.

She gripped the counter again to keep from toppling over, and he started fucking her in earnest, hard upward thrusts of his hand that drove his fingers in again, and again, and again. She held on tight, biting her lip to hold back a moan. She could see nothing but flashes of skin as her breasts swung forward and back, forward and back, faster and faster as his pace intensified.

He pressed in deep, grinding his knuckles, and thumbed her clit, finally.

Orgasm hit her like a slap to the back of the head. Sent shudders coursing through her, and starbursts blooming across her eyes. The world titled, a little, and if she made some sort of undignified sound of ecstasy, she couldn’t hear it for the rushing of blood in her ears.

When proper awareness returned, she discovered that she was in Pongo’s lap. He was sitting back against the lower cabinet faces, legs stretched out in front of him, and she was straddling the bulge that strained the fly of his jeans. A bulge he didn’t seem in a hurry to do anything about, given the way he was suckling leisurely at her left nipple.

Her shirt and bra were gone, she realized, and couldn’t be sure of the order of things: when he’d pulled them off, when he’d sat down, when he’d pulled her astride him. His tongue did something clever, and the suction drew a full-body shiver from her, tender, over-sensitive sex pulsing in time with her still-quick heart. She could go again, and soon; and he knew it. She’d never been with a man before him so intent on drawing as many orgasms out of her at a time as possible. His persistence in that area was one of her favorite things about him, even if it left her feeling like a wrung-out dishrag, after.

Favorite things.Thingsplural.

God, that was just what she needed.

But at the moment, she was too pleasantly sex-drunk to worry about her traitorous affections.

She raked his sweat-damp curls off his forehead and held them there, pinned on top of his head, so she could admire the long curve of his lashes, the baby-soft skin of his cheeks, up high above his five o’clock shadow, where his freckles were scattered, sun-browned and shockingly innocent when viewed like this, with his lips puckered tight around her nipple.

“Did you take my boots off?” she asked, unable to muster an accusatory tone.

He pulled back with a truly obscene sound, flicking the hardened bud with the tip of his tongue at the last. “You were kinda out of it.” He sounded very pleased with himself.

“Pretty sure that’s your fault,” she muttered, without heat.

He chuckled, and shifted to latch onto her other breast.

She hummed encouragingly, and leaned into the wet heat, delighted shivers chasing over her skin.

The comedown between rounds had proved to be incredibly peaceful for her, in the time that she’d known him. Climax quieted the low, constant thrum of anxiety that told her not to trust, not to soften, not to enjoy. In the aftermath, Pongo didn’t like for them to lie flat on their backs and stare at the ceiling; he wanted to keep touching, to keep her fires simmering on low, tension winding back up slowly until she whispered “come on,” and they could build the heat up again fast.

It was peaceful now, if such a thing could be, as he sucked at her and his hands drew aimless patterns across the skin of her back, down low, out to the point of each hip, and back in across her spine again.

She shifted her hips experimentally. His jeans were rough against her sensitive skin, but it gave her the satisfaction of feeling his cock twitch behind his fly. She did it again, a slow circling of her hips, and was rewarded by a cut-off moan in his throat, a desperate little hitch that belied the smooth-guy persona he was trying to portray.

He pulled back from her, warm breath rushing across her damp nipples, tightening them further, until they ached. He tried to hum another of those satisfied, in-control sounds, but it came out desperate; he bit his lip and lifted his hips to meet hers, hands settling on her waist and gripping hard.

His gaze flicked up to meet hers, eyes vivid blue through the screen of his lashes. The lip-biting ruined his smirk in the most rewarding way. “What’s got you so worked up tonight?” he asked, panting a little.

Again, Tobias flashed in her mind. Would he do this? Sit in the floor of her kitchen while she perched naked in his lap? It was too easy to imagine: the dark hair on his chest, the light reflected in the lighter striations of his dark eyes. He was a little broader through the chest and shoulders, his hands bigger; would make her feel even smaller, a bare and pulsing offering at his mercy.

She didn’t know what sort of expression she made, only that her face did something, because his pupils expanded. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

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