Page 23 of Ghost's Revenge
But that feels like too much for a first time, so instead I let my hand slide down his chest, across his stomach, to the impressive bulge straining against his jeans. He's hard as steel, throbbing against my palm, and the sound he makes when I squeeze gently is the most erotic thing I've ever heard.
Without thinking about it, without questioning why, I sink to my knees in front of him. I want to feel powerful, to know that I can affect this dangerous man, that I'm choosing this because I want it and not because I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't.
Derek looks down at me, his dark eyes burning with desire but also concern. "Are you sure? You don't have to—"
"I'm more than sure," I tell him, and I mean it. I've never been more certain of anything in my life.
He doesn't argue. Just unbuckles his belt and tosses it aside, the metal buckle hitting the floor with a soft thud. I pull his jeans down, eager in a way that should probably embarrass me but doesn't. It's been so long since I wanted to touch and be touched, so long since desire was something joyful instead of terrifying.
When I free him from his boxers, I can't help but stare. He's huge, bigger than I've ever seen, thick and hard and already leaking from the tip. For a moment I wonder if I've bitten off more than I can chew, but then I wrap both hands around him and feel the velvet-over-steel heat of him, and all I can think about is how he'll feel inside me.
I stroke him once, twice, three times, watching his face to see what he likes. His head tilts back, throat working as he swallows a groan.
"Use your mouth," he says, voice ragged. "Please."
The fact that he's asking, not demanding, makes me want to give him everything.
I lean forward and take him between my lips, as much as I can manage, which isn't even half his length. He's too big, stretching my mouth in a way that borders on uncomfortable but somehow isn't. I use my tongue along the underside, tasting salt and musk, and feel a surge of satisfaction when his legs actually tremble.
I'm doing this. Me, Debbie Wilson, making this mountain of a man shake with need.
I keep going, taking him as deep as I can, using my hands on what doesn't fit in my mouth. When I pull back to catch my breath, I keep stroking him with one hand while I use my tongue on his balls, and the sound he makes is almost animalistic.
"Fuck," he groans, his hand coming to rest on my head, not pushing or guiding, just connecting. "You're so fucking good at that."
The praise sends another flood of heat between my legs. I've never been told I was good at this before, never felt like my pleasure mattered during sex. But Derek is watching me like I'm performing miracles with my mouth, like there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be than right here.
Suddenly he steps back, his hands shaking as he reaches for me. "We need to stop or I'm going to cum."
"I wouldn't mind," I tell him, and it's the truth. I want to taste him, want to know I can bring him to that point.
"I don't want to finish before I'm inside you," he says, and the raw need in his voice makes me clench with anticipation. "Need to feel you wrapped around me when I cum."
I swallow hard, suddenly nervous despite my eagerness. It's been months since I've had sex, and never with someone Derek's size.
He must see the hesitation in my face because he reaches down and lifts me effortlessly, like I weigh nothing at all, and carries me to the bed. He lays me down with surprising gentleness, then hooks his fingers on the waistband of my pajama pants and pulls them down.
His smirk when he sees how wet my panties are should probably embarrass me, but the pure male satisfaction on his face just makes me want him more.
"I'm sorry," I say automatically. "I get really wet. It's always been—"
"Why the fuck are you apologizing?" he asks, genuine confusion in his voice.
"David used to complain about it. Said I was so wet it was hard for him to... you know, stay hard."
Derek's expression darkens for a moment, and I can see him fighting down the same anger I glimpsed this morning when he dealt with David on the porch.
"That's not going to be a problem," he says firmly. "Trust me when I say I fucking love how wet you are for me. Shows me how much you want this."
He pulls off his shirt, revealing a torso that would make men half his age jealous. Broad shoulders, defined pecs, abs that speak of a lifetime of physical work rather than hours in a gym. A roadmap of scars that tells stories I'm not ready to hear but want to know anyway.
"You're gorgeous," I whisper, running my hands over his chest, feeling the way he shudders at my touch.
"And you're perfect," he answers, pushing my legs apart with his knee. "Fucking perfect."
He doesn't rush, doesn't just push into me like I half-expected. Instead, he takes himself in hand and guides the head of his cock to my entrance, watching my face as he starts to press forward.
The stretch is immediate and intense, bordering on pain but not quite crossing that line. He's so big, filling me in a way I've never experienced before, and for a moment I wonder if he'll even fit.
