Page 23 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
He presses against the insides of my ankles, and I instinctually widen my stance; my hands have a mind of their own, trailing over his head to the ponytail, tugging his hair free to spill loose over his shoulders. I bury my hands in his hair, keeping my eyes on his.
“Dessert,” he answers, and drags his tongue over my seam.
“Oh god.”
“We were in too much of a rush last time and I didn’t get to taste you.” He laps again, slowly, his tongue not penetrating yet, just tasting, teasing.
I have no verbal response for that beyond a gasp as his lips close over my seam and he suckles my clitoris between his teeth, a sudden and wilding assault. Then, instead of pursuing the high he’d started me on, he traces my seam once more but with a fingertip. I watch, mesmerized, as his index finger makes a slow journey over my entrance, back and forth, teasing. His eyes watch me watching him, and I know he sees when I feel the slight pressure he applies to my clit. He sees my reaction when his finger slips between my nether lips, and he sees the way I grit my teeth and suck in an inhalation at the slow, inexorable penetration of his finger inside me. Oh—oh god. He’s in no rush, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. I expected no less from Franco, but it’s still an overwhelming rush of sensation that leaves me dizzy and gasping and trembling, to be played like a violin with such expert mastery. As his finger explores inside me, he brings his lips to me once more, and now his tongue slathers against my clit, working it to hypersensitive hardness. I have a knotted, tangled grip on his hair, bunching the silky mass in my hands. I feel his other hand cup around my buttock, holding me against his mouth.
“God—Franco…holy shit.”
He smirks up at me, and I see the slick evidence of my desire smeared on his mouth. “I remember you screaming a hell of a lot louder than that last night,” he remarks.
I close my eyes briefly as he trades his words for licks, a series of slow circles against me. “You—you’ll have to earn the screams, Franco.”
“Do you doubt that I can—and that I will?”
I thunk my head back against the door several times, barely holding back a whimper. “Hell no. But I plan on making you work for them.”
Oh god, oh god, oh god—do I ever make him work for them. I keep my moans and whimpers and screams bottled up tight as he laves and licks and fingers and fondles. I bite my lip and nearly sever my tongue, but I keep quiet.
Until he adds a second and third finger, curling them just so, and flicks my clit with his tongue—all this at once is too much, and the ramping climax that sears through me drags a gasping, whimpering, drawn-out cry from me, and then my legs shake and tremble and give out. Franco is there to catch me, standing up and scooping me in his arms.
Dammit, dammit, dammit! I didn’t want to show weakness, didn’t want to let the orgasm get the better of me, and didn’t want to need his arms around me like this. Stupid. Shouldn’t have let him in. Shouldn’t have gone on the date.
It was a date.
And a damn good one at that, too.
His arms under my thighs and around my shoulders feel much too comforting and comfortable. His eyes on mine are blazing and yet somehow distant—as I know mine are. I know exactly why he chose to do what he did—why he chose to kneel in front of me and go down on me. It’s what I’d do, in the reverse situation. Anything to keep from feeling the connection.
Damn him.
Because I do feel it. That orgasm was the tip of the iceberg and we both know it. That was one rep in our warm-up set.
I feel him moving, walking—and I only realize then that my eyes are closed and I’m focusing with gritted intensity on just breathing, on not lovingneedingcraving his mouth and his kiss and his hands and his body.
Jesus, what is he doing to me? How can he make me need this so fucking badly?
He sets me on my bed. When I open my eyes I see him standing in front of my balcony, his back to the glass, facing me. Backlit by the summer sunset, orange and red and gold, bathing him in sun-limned glory. Hair loose, framing his angular jaw and piercing, scintillating blue eyes. He’s gazing at me, his expression hard and closed off and inscrutable—and I begrudge him none of that.
I sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed, planting my heels on the Persian rug under my bed that covers my pale blond hardwood floors. I didn’t intend for him to come here—my bathrobe is on the floor near the door to my en suite bathroom, my workout clothes are rolled inside out and discarded nearby. A bra hangs from the bathroom doorknob, and my underwear drawer is open, thongs and briefs and boy shorts draped over the edge after my hurried rifling to find the set I’m wearing. My bathroom is a mess, makeup everywhere, a hair dryer plugged in and balanced on the edge of the counter, my box of tampons still sitting open on the floor beside the toilet. The bedside table drawer is open, revealing a Hitachi wand, a Womanizer, and a few other vibrators, strings of condoms of assorted sizes, brands, and styles, lubricant, silk handcuffs, and a sleep mask (read: blindfold).
