Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(76)

The sound of my breathing echoes in the silence as Saint allows this Charles guy to speak—then zip. I lower Saint’s zipper, then pull open his belt, never once taking my eyes off his face. His beautiful face. His lids look weighted as he watches my every move, and his gaze flares hot and tender as I take him out. He is all smooth velvet flesh, all of him, hard and thick. So strong. So vital. So ready.

I lick him, base to tip. I encircle his cock with my mouth, my tongue roaming, pressing, tasting as I feather my lips across the head. He tastes exquisite. His cock was made for sucking and for f*cking, and right now nothing will convince me it wasn’t made for me.

His fingers slide into my hair as his cock swells even thicker and longer between my lips.

I suck harder, the head of his cock massaging my throat.

“That sounds right,” he says quietly into the phone. As he speaks, he brushes my hair behind my shoulders. He wants to see my face, I realize.

He wants to see mine, and I really want to see his.

Prolonging our eye contact, I continue savoring him, getting lost in the moment, and he tightens his hand on my hair. I pour myself into it. I want this to be a most memorable blow job, just like I love to mentally replay the times he’s gone down on me.

He is enormous, pink flesh straining to be inside me—to be pleased. And right now I have one goal only: to make Saint come inside me. He’s beautiful and in control and powerful, and I want him to come in my mouth.

My sex throbbing, I hear his voice as he tells Charles to keep him posted; then he hangs up and tosses the phone aside.

“Rachel,” he says in thick approval, cupping my face with both hands, smiling down at me with pure heat. He rubs his thumbs over my cheekbones as he pulls my face up and back as he leans forward to kiss my lips. “Do you like it?” he asks.

I nod. Stroking his thighs, up his abs, I whisper, “I want to taste you. . . .” I’m beyond happy when he sets his hands at his sides and lets me get back to him.

I stroke my fingers up the length of his shaft and kiss the wetness at the tip, my body one single throbbing nerve as I savor his breath changing, one hand reaching out and his fingers clenching in my hair, the words he whispers to me as he starts pushing me and losing control. That’s right, Rachel . . . God, that’s right. . . . Do you like it . . . ?

I don’t even realize my own hands are acting wild, rubbing up his chest, clawing at him, up his neck, the back of his head, as I try to get closer to intensify my blow job, to give him the kind of pleasure he gives me.

As I suck with more vigor, he whispers, his voice raw and low, “I come with you, Rachel,” and he pulls me up with his hands on my face, then urges me down on the car bench as I start yanking down my jeans with record speed. He strips them off my legs, and then his hungry lips nibble a path up my stomach to my breasts as he pushes my top upward and my bra downward, freeing my nipples. A soft, helpless moan leaves me as I arch my body, offering him everything I have and more.

“Oh, yes,” I moan, raking my nails over his back, wanting to feel his skin on mine.

He claims my lips. I’m not sure we can deal with this, with how we feel. No. Maybe only I feel like this, but he feels something for me too, I can feel it in his hands, his looks. So this is what we do. He nibbles my lips, urges my legs open with his palms. I’ve stopped breathing when he lowers his head. He tastes me. Firm strokes of his tongue.

He turns me into a bubbling mess, torturing me, pushing me to the brink of orgasm and then . . . making me wait as he tears into a condom packet and sheathes his glorious cock.

He covers me with his body, and the next second we’re locked, groaning in relief. His torture doesn’t end there. He drives deep and slow, forcing me to savor every pulsing, delicious inch of every thorough and perfect plunge. I can’t keep still. I can’t hold back the fierce sensation of something building inside me, straining for release. My mouth sucks his beautiful full mouth, his ear, his neck, his jaw raspy under my lips.

I’m so scared to consider what it is. I’m so scared he’ll hurt me. I’m so scared I’ll hurt him. I suck back a quiet sob as I start coming, shaking and trembling in both excruciating pleasure and quiet internal pain.

My eyes blur. I hear his loud bark as he comes, feel the long, deep pulses of his body coming over mine, and I take advantage to wipe my eyes and then kiss any part of him I can.

Saint invites me to dinner at some posh, top-rated, hard-to-get-into place, but I tell him I don’t want a crowd. So he does something I don’t expect; he gets us into Navy Pier after hours. We walk the long, quiet path that usually bustles with people; tonight it is quiet and empty, except for us. On one side are the stores, games, little shops, and on the other, the pier.

“How did you pull this off?”

“Otis knows one of the night guards.” He chuckles.

“Let’s go into one of those.” I point at the Ferris wheel, and we get into one of the empty seats, shielded from the wind as he asks me if I ever came here when I was younger.

“Sometimes, with my mother,” I say. “You?”

“My mother wouldn’t have been caught dead here.”

“But here you are. You look just as handsome in those jeans as in your suit.” I touch the collar of his crisp white button-down shirt. “I love these shirts of yours. Sometimes I want to see my lipstick on one, just because.”