Page 65 of For The Weekend
“Please, daddy,” I beg, earning a growl of approval, and I cup my breasts with my hands, searching for relief.
“I’ll take care of my good girl,” he says and draws a line with his tongue from my lips to my breastbone before lifting his head, taking in my pose—the cups of my bra pushed down, my thumbs and index fingers pinching my nipples, knees bent and parted, totally wanton. “You’re so pretty like this. Like a painting.” He leans away another few inches, palming my stomach. “You should be memorialized like that. Hung in a museum so everyone can see your beauty.”
“Roman,” I whine, desperate for his hands on me but also because I don’t feel like I deserve his words.
He bends, scratching my lower belly with his beard, raking his blunt nails over my hips when he drags my underwear down my legs. Then he’s there, mouth and nose buried,inhaling deeply, like I’m some lavish meal. I arch my back when he licks along my aching flesh, and he slips his fingers inside, stroking me gently, carefully. I want more, digging my fingers into his hair, fighting for control, which he refuses to give up. I’m already wet, ready for him, but he takes his time, building me up slowly, dropping kisses on my thighs and hips and stomach.
“This isn’t fucking me like a bastard,” I grit out, and hot air wafts over my sensitive skin when he huffs.
“You’re right. This is me fucking you as much as you can handle right now.”
“Bastard.”
He murmurs his agreement then turns on the vibrator, the low hum filling the room. I jolt at the sudden intensity when he presses it against my clit, and he keeps his hand on my stomach, holding me down, as I mindlessly squirm beneath him.
Pleasure courses through me, and I have trouble keeping my eyes open, but when I can, I see him nodding as if to himself, lips moving in quiet praise. “Good girl. Let go.”
He eases his fingers back inside me, and that’s all it takes. I’m all light and sensation, crying out, shuddering with my release, and I need a few deep breaths before I can pry my eyelids open. The shades on my windows are up, afternoon light filling the room, highlighting Roman’s large form like some religious tableau. He does make me speak in tongues like the Holy Spirit, so it’s not far off.
He sets the vibrator aside, his eyes never leaving mine, then shifts to his knees, running his hands up and down my thighs, in no rush to move. Though the bulge behind his jeans is evidence of his arousal. He’s right in that I really don’t think I could take his cock inside me, but I want to help him, offer him the same mind-bending orgasm he’s blessed me with.
When I reach for him, he catches my hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses my fingers. My palm. My inner wrist.
“This is about you,” he says, his voice rough, like he hasn’t used it in ten years. Or used it too much in the last day.
Maybe he has. He said so himself on our date at Tabby Cat; he’s given me more words than he’s given anyone else this whole year.
I aim for his zipper again, but he knocks my hand out of the way. “Just lie there. Let me look at you.”
I rid myself of my bra and relax against my pillows, which I think Roman likes if his audible exhale or the way he licks his lips is any indication. He unbuttons his jeans, pushing them down enough to free his erection from his boxer briefs, the elastic fitting beneath his heavy sac, his thick length aimed straight at me.
Last time, I didn’t have enough light to really admire him, but now I can study every detail. The slight flush of his golden skin with those deep, even lines of his abs that a person could float a boat on. He has birds tattooed above each of his indented hip bones that seem almost too romantic to be on this masculine of a man with veins on his flat, lower stomach pointing to that monster cock of his.
“Touch yourself,” he orders as he takes himself in hand, stroking slowly, his eyes locked on mine, and I don’t hesitate. I slip my fingers down my slit, circling my already oversensitized clit, and I let loose a sigh that’s one-part needy sex machine and one-part overused sex doll.
His chest rises and falls, mouth pulling as if in pain, but I can tell he’s already close to coming and I stroke myself faster, matching the rhythm of his fist, tugging hard on his cock, a pearl of moisture pooling on the thick head. The sight of him, the sound of his harsh breaths, the knowledge that he’s doing this for me,becauseof me, pushes me over the edge.
“Roman,” I moan, muscles tensing as another orgasm rips through me. He groans, hunching over as his release hits my stomach in warm lines. He shudders and places his left hand on the bed next to my hip, his right hand pulling whatever is left out of him, a few drops landing on my thigh.
A tattoo of a different kind.
He collapses next to me, and we both lie together for a minute, soaking in the aftereffects of this intimacy that is as hot as it is a fantasy.
It’s never felt like this before. I’ve never had this immediate connection and desire for someone, and I don’t know what to do now that our weekend of faking it is over.
But I don’t have too much time to think about it because my cell phone buzzes with a message, and I roll over to find my jeans, retrieving it from the pocket. Behind me, I feel and hear slight shuffling as Roman dresses, knowing he’ll be leaving. And I won’t have his protection anymore.
I’ll have to fend for myself against my mother’s text message.
Mom
You and I need to have a conversation about this weekend. I am disgusted at your disrespect. To say nothing of how your “boyfriend” treated me.
My jaw tenses, my shoulders up by my ears, and it’s a few seconds until I remember to tell myself to relax. I set my phone down and wipe a tissue over my stomach and legs before finding one of my sleep T-shirts to throw on. It just about covers my ass.
“You okay?” Roman asks, rounding the bed to take my face in his hands. When I merely nod, he narrows his brows. “What’s wrong?”
I can’t lie to the man. I’m physically incapable of not telling him the truth. He should probably work for the CIA.
