Page 2 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
“Dammit, woman,” he breathes. “I was trying to sleep.”
I quirk an eyebrow up at him. “Bullshit. You were awake.”
He just stares balefully down at me. “Yeah—when you started messing with me.”
I reach for him, grasp him in my fist, and lazily stroke him. “Like you’re complaining.”
He glances at the alarm clock on the nightstand beside the hotel bed. “Coulda waited until at least six in the damn morning.”
I shrug. “Eh, I wake up at five thirty or so every morning without an alarm clock, just out of long habit. I couldn’t sleep in past six even if I wanted to.”
His eyes watch the movement of my hand as I slowly caress his length. “You want me to come everywhere, Audra? Because that’s what’s about to happen if you don’t quit for a damn second.”
I shrug again, the movement causing my admittedly overly generous breasts to sway. “I wouldn’t mind seeing that. Could be kinda hot.”
“Maybe, but it wouldn’t get you an orgasm.”
“You have ten fingers and a tongue, don’t you?” I reply, not stopping. “You could use those.”
He narrows his eyes as he looks at me. “I could.” He pulls out of my reach, pinions my wrists in one of his hands, and then leans over me, stretching across me to snag a condom from off the table beside the bed. “But I have other ideas.”
I fake a confused expression. “You’ve already fucked me missionary, bent over the bed, doggy style, and with my feet on your shoulders. What’s next, some weird Kama Sutra position?”
He doesn’t respond, just keeps hold of my hands with one of his, rips the condom wrapper open with his teeth, spits the strip of wrapper aside, holds the wrapper in his teeth and withdraws the ring, then rolls it onto himself in a single, smooth motion.
“You’re good at that,” I remark, grinning up at him.
“Lots of practice.” He doesn’t grin back.
“Ooh, so serious,” I say, in a mocking tone of voice. “You know, I can put that on you with just my mouth.”
He pauses, staring down at me in surprise and skepticism. “Really?”
I nod, struggling to break his hold on my wrists. “Oh yeah. I’m really good with my mouth.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
I laugh. “Sorry, I was too busy screaming.”
He smirks. “Never made a girl scream so loud that we got a call from the front desk. I’ve had neighbors pound on the walls, but never got an actual noise complaint before.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly the most inhibited lady you’ll ever meet.” I struggle harder to break free. “Now let me go, dammit.”
He’s back to super serious Franco again. “I don’t think so.”
“Let me go and I’ll show you what I can do with my mouth.”
“You know you’re gonna show me anyway.” He shoves my hands up over my head and bends over me to nuzzle my breasts. “I told you, I have different plans.”
“Like what?”
He reaches between my thighs, two fingers circling my clit, still pinning my hands over my head. He watches me as he touches me, bringing me expertly and swiftly to the cusp of climax in a matter of a minute or two, and then pushing me inexorably over the edge—this first one doesn’t make me scream, just moan and whimper and thrash underneath him, but he doesn’t stop even when I’ve finished my orgasm—instead, he just keeps touching, this time slipping those same two fingers inside me, curling them and stiffening them, using them to massage deep inside me, slicking them in and out, in and out, faster and faster, always striking that one particular little spot just right, again and again, tirelessly. This one isn’t as fast to overtake me, but when it does start to rise within me, it’s a hot, expanding balloon of pressure and frenzied energy and desperation, a deep, throbbing vaginal orgasm pulsing through me in a tidal wave of ramping intensity.
Again, he doesn’t tease or draw it out, just throws me mercilessly over the edge—and this time I do scream, just a small breathless shriek as I’m racked by the waves of climax. My whole body is tensed and I thrash, kicking and bucking, but he has an iron grip on my wrists, and just lets me thrash and shriek underneath him, fingers driving in and out of me through the entirety of the climax.
Next, he transfers his grip on my wrists to his other hand, and I feel my sticky juices dripping down his fingers onto my wrists. Using his now-free hand, he slides two fingers inside me and presses a thumb against my clit.
I’m gasping, shaking, limp, and I rock my head side to side, no longer struggling. “Oh god, Franco, not another one. Jesus. I’ll die.”
He just snorts derisively. “You came at least half a dozen times last night. You’ll survive a few more.”
