Page 62 of Colt
“I know I didn’t make a casserole tonight, but am I allowed to give you a blow job?”
Need courses through me, a fierce, possessive yes echoing inside of me. I growl, my hand going to her hair, forcing her face up to meet my gaze. “Yes, you have my permission.” I’m supposed to be teasing, but it doesn’t come out light. Doesn’t come across as a joke. Instead, my voice sounds tortured. Dominant in a way that I’m usually not in the bedroom.
I like to take charge in small ways. I like to be the strong one. But I don’t need to play power exchange games. For the first time, I kind of get the appeal. She undoes the snap on my jeans, the zipper, frees my cock and leans in, her tongue darting out to the head, pleasure cascading over me at a wave.
She presses her soft lips to me.
A kiss.
A kiss of all things. And I’m dying. Then, she sucks me in deep, swallowing me down. She makes eye contact with me, those beautiful green eyes on mine as she tastes me. I start to arch my hips up off the mattress, unable to control myself. Unable to hold back. I’m still holding her hair, thrusting up against the back of her throat.
She’s taking me like a champ.
And I do pull her hair now. I’m rewarded with a rough sound of pleasure from her that echoes through me.
It’s the best fucking blow job I’ve ever had in my life. She is in possession of this level of skill, and those assholes she’s beensleeping with can’t be bothered to make her come? Pearls before swine. Pearls before God damn pigs.
She deserves so much more. She’s a queen. A goddess.
I thrust upward, and she brings her head down even more aggressively, a guttural sound in the back of her throat. I gasped, then pulled her away quickly, because I’m about to lose it. She wipes at her mouth, dainty, sweet. Hell, that wasn’t either of those things.
“I could’ve kept going,” she says.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me you could do that?”
“It’s not something that comes up in polite conversation. Though I have to say, I’ve never put myself to the test quite like that.”
Oh my ego is out of control now. My hand still fisted in her hair I draw her up and bring her in for a kiss. My arm wrapped around her waist, I practically bring her up onto my lap. And then, I reverse our positions. I’ve got my leg and the brace off the bed, my toe barely making contact with the ground but not bearing any weight. My other leg is on the bed, my knee pressed into the mattress. “I want to fuck you,” I say.
“I thought that was the idea.”
“No. Like this.”
I’m over her, my eyes blazing into hers.
“I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
I growl. “I’ve got it.”
With a look of desperation on her face, she reaches over to the nightstand and paws around for a condom. She reminds me of a video that I saw of a raccoon trying to grab dog food while not looking. But she resurfaces with the condom, and tears it open quickly. Then she reaches between us, and rolls it over me. Squeezes me for good measure.
I let my head fall back. God it feels good. She feels good.
This feels good. She brings out a whole lot of things in me that I’ve never explored. This desire for the forbidden. Enjoying more intensity during sex. Who would’ve ever thought that my stepsister was the key to unlocking all that.
I draw up her thigh and bring it up over my hip as I sink slowly into her tight heat. She feels so good. So tight. So perfect. I start to move, and she’s so slick and wet, it’s perfect. Easy. But I don’t let it stay easy. I take her hard, and her fingernails dig into my shoulders. I hope that she draws blood. Damn it all if I have to be marked by life, then I want some scars from this.
I whisper in her ear, rough, crude commands that seem to only get her more excited. And then I can feel her coming around my cock, her pleasure so explosive, so intense, that I’m afraid it’s going to send me over right then too. That my own orgasm is going to be so hard, so intense, that my remaining whole bones are going to burst into smithereens.
When it does come, I might as well be getting thrown down into the arena again. That’s how intense it is. That’s how raw. And I wouldn’t change it. It’s perfect. It’s everything.
I rest my forehead against hers, breathing hard. We’re both sweaty. “Shower,” I say.
“But you…”
“I’ll sit on my bench,” I say. “With my sad leg condom.”
Suddenly, the sexy shower doesn’t seem all that sexy. I regret suggesting it, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, she helps me get ready. And then, while I sit on the bench and shower, she stands across from me, naked, perfectly dry, waiting her turn.
