Page 35 of Cherry Beats

“Soon,” he rasped.

Dropping his hand, he grabbed hold of mine and placed it over his rock-hard cock straining against his jeans.

I didn’t need his instruction or permission. As soon as I felt the hard length of it, I wanted it in my bare hands. I popped the button on his jeans and carefully unzipped him before I pushed them down to reveal his whiteCalvin Kleinboxers. Presley’s mouth never stopped working my tits into a frenzy. I was already a sweaty, panting mess, and he hadn’t even undressed me. Running my hands over his ridiculously firm arse, I began to slide his boxers down.

“Let me see you,” I panted breathlessly.

Presley’s mouth was wet and agape when he looked up at me through hooded eyes and leaned back. I could have exploded the second the air hit the moisture on my nipples, and a low, wanting moan escaped the back of my throat.

“God, those noises you make,” he breathed, reaching up to rub his thumbs over the red, swollen buds. “And the way you taste.”

But I was too busy going to work, watching as he sprang free, rock hard and ready to be ridden.

“Holy shit,” I whispered, my eyes widening at the size of him. The veins throbbed under the lights of the bathroom, and the end of his dick was already wet, waiting for me.

“Touch me, Cherry. Let’s make each other come until we see the sun.”

The second I wrapped my fingers around him and began to jerk him off, he grabbed the back of my head, pushed me back until I slammed into the wall with a grunt of exciting pain, and he fucked my mouth with his kisses, while I took care of him.

With one hand he made me come by doing nothing more than twisting and pinching my aroused nipples.

With one hand I made him come over my stomach, leaving the two of us already somewhat sated, but desperate—fucking desperate—and panting for more.

“Look at that,” Presley said, forcing my head to snap up to see him standing there wearing nothing more than a white towel around his waist, showing a slither of that perfect V. He smirked, running a hand through his wet hair. “We just made it out of a bathroom without either one of us getting the other off.”

“I’ve acquired some control since then,” I lied.

“We’ll see.” He laughed, dropping his hands to the tight towel around his waist so he could adjust it, which only made his hard pecs and abs flex even more.

I narrowed my eyes at him as he dropped down onto the sofa and kicked his feet up on the footstool, making himself at home.

“You motherfucking wankholing…” I said under my breath through gritted teeth, and then I growled—literally growled—and I kicked the kitchen unit as my temper flared. “Dammit!” I snapped, immediately doubling over to grab my freshly wounded toe. “Shit.”

“You okay back there?” he asked, not even looking over his shoulder as he flicked the TV on with the remote.

“Never been better,” I squeaked.

After a minute of bringing my toe back to life, I got to work on the chilli, making sure to slam every door I opened and shut, and clang every pot I held in my hands. I was halfway through stirring the food and burning holes of destruction into the back of Presley’s head when the knock at the door changed everything.

Presley spun around on the sofa, looked at me and mouthed, “Expecting anyone?”

I shook my head violently. “Nobody.”

The two of us stared at the door, watching it as though it was going to explode.

“Miss Lisbon?” a sweet voice called from the other side of it.

Presley’s concerned eyes shot back to mine. “Do you know who that is?” he mouthed.

“No. You?”

“Why would I know?” he hissed.

“I don’t know. You might recognise the voice. You’re the one on the run today, not me.”

“Shit.”

“What do I do?”

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