Page 67 of If Not for My Baby
This is the first time in my life I’ve ever fantasized about a man’s body—his quads no less—in a nonsexual manner. I am literally engaging in a sex act, thinking about weekend date activities. Usually you’re in that ocean or on that hike fantasizing aboutthismoment. Not the other way around.
“Clem?” Tom murmurs, a little hoarse. “You can stop, if you want. You know that, right?”
When I tip my head up and peek through my mess of blond hair, our eyes meet. And his expression takes my breath away. The care of it. The force of his wanting battling his concern. I can’t take it—
“Your body short-circuited my brain,” I admit shakily.
Tom is the kind of man who’s never too cool to laugh. He laughs with all his teeth—dimples, mouth open, head tipped back. He laughs the way he sings, with his whole heart.
“That’s happened to me a few times with you.” His hand sweeps up my neck, even as his eyes caress my tits and waist and knees. My cheeks flush and that weight between my legs doubles.
As if sucking on him will somehow ease the ache in my core, I angle the tip of his cock gently into my mouth. Tom releases a pained groan and I press my lips a little harder. My rhythm picks up, and though I need both my hands, I think I’m doing all right. Tom’s fingers have scraped gently over my scalp and tethered into my hair. When strands find themselves tangling in my wet fists and sticking to my full cheeks, Tom scoops all the strands into one hand and holds them forme. He doesn’t yank back or force me down, like previous men I’ve done this with. He’s merely offering to be my hair tie.
And I should have seen this coming: that eliciting such severe pleasure in him—as evidenced by the grunts and rare whimpers he releases and the way his glorious leg muscles tense under my palms every time I lick him softly—would be a fast track to my own demise. I’ve never been this wet in my life. My core is swollen and pulsing, my underwear drenched.
“Clementine.” He groans as I drag my tongue over his shaft. Then, huskier, “Baby.”
I can’t imagine winning any trophy, any prize, that could feel better than this.
He’s thick, and too long for me to take deeply, but I swirl my tongue over him as I work my hands, until Tom lets out a broken breath that tells me he’s close. Hand still in my hair, he brushes his other thumb gently over my lips where I’m stretched so full of him.
“Your mouth,” he rasps. “Fuck.”
I work my hands and mouth faster in tandem, even as tears gather in the corners of my eyes. With each downward stroke he bucks up toward me, and when I trace one hand lightly over his balls, he groans quietly. “I’m going to come.”
I work my mouth faster, harder, careful of my teeth and not to choke on his thickness, until his whole body tenses, his lower abdomen contracting under the barely there light, and then he releases, groaning roughly, gripping my head and jaw with as much restraint as he can manage until the splash of him hits the back of my throat and I swallow eagerly. I milk him until I’m sure he’s finished, and when I sit back on myheels, trembling, I wonder how few touches from him it would take for me to fall over the edge, too.
He sits up to stroke his fingertips soothingly over my chin and my swollen bottom lip until his jaw strains. The gesture is so sweet, so gentle—his touch is divine. “You don’t want to know how many nights I’ve pictured that.”
His voice, even holier. I am a believer. I am reformed. If that’s the kind of worship he sings about, I will gladly be on my knees morning and night. I press my chin into his hand, dipping my face until I’m kissing his palm. He murmurs my name and I whimper his back to him.
He’s pulling me toward him, eyes hungry once more, when the bus shudders with the opening of the luggage compartment outside.
“Shit,” I hiss, scrambling from him like he burns to the touch. I stumble to the floor and throw my tank top overhead, and then pull my jeans on. The seam of them against my still-pulsing clit is like some kind of medieval torture, and I try not to squirm.
I move for the hallway, figuring I can jump into my bunk and pretend to be asleep until we arrive in New York—when Tom’s hands encircle my waist and he hauls me backward.
“Not so fast,” he growls.
He’s towering over me, all fully bare, six foot six of him, and without my shoes on my chin barely reaches his pecs.
“They’re getting back on the bus,” I breathe. “They’re going to—”
With ease, he presses me against the wall, and kisses me hungrily. His tongue licks at mine and I nearly convulse. I’mclose to stripping so I can mount him. Through the flimsy tin can of a tour bus, I can hear Conor’s hacking laugh outside.
“I have to go.”
But he can’t hear me. He’s in a caveman-like daze. His hand slides the zipper of my jeans down. Eachclickis like a thrust. His fingertips skim over my low stomach and find my clit under my panties. He grunts in satisfaction, rubbing me in light circles. The sound I make in response does not bear repeating—it’s not ladylike or dreamy or hot. I’m a horny creature from some black lagoon. One that’s ovulating, maybe.
When he finds my entrance dripping, his eyes shutter. I actually can’t tell if he’s breathing. But then he groans softly and uses my own wetness to make those circles on my clit even more decadent. I claw at his shoulders, press every sensitive point on my body against his warm, heavy chest, and whine and plead and mewl. A feral animal in need of many tranquilizers.
At the sound of Lionel’s high-pitched voice instructing someone to find Jen, my heart kicks up speed and Halloran handles me quicker. I’m soaked from getting him off and weeks of fantasizing about moments just like this. I know he can tell because his fingers are working a little harder to build friction than they should need to.
“So sweet.” The grit in his deep voice alone brings me halfway to orgasm. “Just as I knew you’d be.”
I suck on his tongue until he groans and then quiets himself. We have minutes—seconds, maybe—until the entire band has climbed aboard and realizes I’m not in my bunk. But the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse couldn’t rip mefrom Tom’s arms right now. Not as he alternates pressure on my clit and those barely there strokes. I’m pulsing and throbbing, dripping down my thighs. His hand is magic. He plays me like his guitar—dexterous and with ease. Driven by innate instinct and a punishing, raw need.
Seconds later I’m pulling my face from his to drive my head back into the wall as I come hard against his fingertips, my insides clenching around the emptiness—his fingers have remained on my clit the whole time. When he coaxes me through another excruciating wave that rolls over my limbs and down my spine, Tom has to cover my mouth with his other hand to silence the avalanche of groans.
