Brutal Game (Flynn and Laurel #2)(35)

He sat on the couch. Laurel knew better than to stroke his thighs or go for his fly as she had earlier—not without say-so. This Flynn was in charge, and she’d do only what he asked. What he commanded.

“Show me what you were gonna do, girl.”

She dipped her chin in a tiny nod. She reached for his belt, unthreading it slowly, her body buzzing, hands nearly shaking. She felt as nervous as she had their first night alone together, but just as excited. Wet, too. Ready for whatever he demanded of her.

She spread the thick leather of his belt and opened the button of his fly, then the zipper. Merino wool teased her knuckles, the sweater she’d chosen for a man she’d known so well, worn now by this thrilling and unnerving stranger. It was so soft, the body beneath it merciless and hard. She let the feelings move through her like a song hummed out of tune. Any fear she felt was welcome, a dark new shadow in a forest she tread in fearlessly.

“Take me out. Get me hard.”

She knew those words as a penitent woman might know a Bible verse. She tugged his jeans low and he shifted, pushing them to his hips. The second half of his order proved moot; his erection looked obscene even through black cotton, and again Laurel felt that prickle in her mouth, thirst spiking. She stroked him with the heel of her hand, but he wanted more. He pushed his waistband down, exposing every ready inch. The breath left her in a huff.

“That what you wanted to see?”

She nodded, meeting his eyes. “Yes.”

“Stroke it.”

She wrapped her hand around that fevered flesh. His pulse throbbed in her grip, impatient. Insistent. She kept it slow, kept it tight, measuring him with her fist. His scent was so strong now. She’d find his excitement gleaming at his slit before long, evidence of his need so like the wetness already slicking her lips.

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I love your cock.” I love you, exactly like this. It was like loving a stranger—impulsive and thrilling.

“Show me how much you love it.”

She gripped his root and lowered her mouth. He tasted as he smelled, potent and personal. She swallowed him halfway—as much as she could without gagging. Then again, again, stroking the underside with her tongue, letting his head nearly slip from her lips only to claim him again, a little deeper, a little deeper still.

“More.”

I know what you want. What every man wanted, it often felt, but only this one had ever managed to make sexy, as far as Laurel was concerned. Words from three seasons back echoed in her ears—spoken to another woman but meant for her. Of that she had no doubt.

Good girl. I wanna see you choke on that cock.

She gave what he asked. Slid her lips past the point of comfort and his crown bumped her palate, triggering that first reflexive gag. She felt the spasm but not the sting in her sinuses, not the roiling in her stomach. She knew this act too well.

A cool, heavy hand came to rest on the nape of her neck, sending a shiver trickling down her back. She took him deep again, reveling in the way her muscles clenched, unafraid. While the sensation wasn’t strictly pleasant, the result was reward enough to go there, tenfold. She might tense with every fresh violation, but it was nothing compared to how her reaction affected him.

Like an electrical pulse, his entire body jerked each time she gagged. Sometimes a “yeah” or a “f*ck” rewarded her, sometimes a half-swallowed moan. Her mouth was awash with spit, a reflex she’d once found embarrassing, but now welcomed part and parcel with the rest of this act. It bathed his flesh and eased the motions, slipped from her lips in warm ribbons. It made her feel sloppy but that only sharpened the taboo. The biology of his desire was ugly, and these were the things that turned him on like nothing else. She welcomed the wet heat as it slid along her jugular, welcomed his deepening moans as his hips began to work.

The hand on her neck moved to her hair, fisting her ponytail. “Take that cock. Nice and deep. Show me how bad you f*cking want it.”

Held this way, her chance to own some part of this act was gone. Her only options now were to submit or to flee, and that choice needed no deliberation.

In time she felt her face flushing, her nose growing runny. Just as she was beginning to hope he’d finish soon, he eased her off him by her hair. She sat back on her knees, resisting an urge to sniff, or to flex her aching jaw. She kept her eyes on his chest, watching its quick rise and fall and awaiting whatever came next.

“On my bed,” he ordered, face and voice both cold as January.

She got to her feet, legs tingly. She could feel his eyes on her every step of the way, found them studying her hips or thighs when she turned and sat. His cock was hidden by his shorts once more. He fisted his jeans and belt and approached, stopping before her, seeming mountainous. He peeled away his sweater and undershirt in one pull, then slid his belt free with a slow, smooth motion. It looked like a bullwhip in his fist. He tossed it behind her on the bed. She’d expected him to keep his jeans on, but he pushed them down along with his shorts, stepping free of the pile and stripping his socks. Usually when he was playing the cold and controlling stranger, he kept his pants on. It seemed that power play wasn’t needed tonight, and it made her wonder exactly who this was.

Whoever he might be, he looked powerful and impenetrable even without of stitch of clothing hiding that pale skin. Whatever he might want, it was as dark as his shaded eyes or the hair framing his ready cock, or the stitches marring his brow.