Rogue (Real #4)(41)
Sensuality oozed off him so bad I want to lick him. The way he’s been f*cking me is so . . . I can’t even explain it. I’ve never felt such a strong connection, such a primal awareness of him as a man, and me as a . . . woman. “What about anal?”
Lord, his next laugh was so dark and sexy. “Of course. That’s always fun.” He looked at me, then understanding dawned in his eyes, and they started shining brightly, almost too brightly as he cupped my ass in one warm, long-fingered hand. “Come here, Melanie.”
My heart sped up at the lust thickening his voice. I love sex. Sex is the only way I’ve ever connected with the opposite gender, but never like this. Never with anything risky. Anything where I had to trust the man being with me not to hurt me.
“Do you want to get ass-fingered, princess?” he whispered in my ear, and my blood rushed hot in my veins as he dipped his thumb along the fissure between the curves of my buttocks. All my body squeezed in reaction as he headed for that spot.
“Grey!” I said, my cheeks burning a vivid scarlet when his thumb grazed me, like the brush of a feather.
“Does that feel good, princess?” He watched me with liquid whiskey eyes, his eyelashes seeming heavy as I caught my lip between my teeth to keep from making an embarrassingly wanton sound. I became so wet I heard the slick sound of his thumb brushing over my folds before he started dragging his hand backward again, passing over every nerve on my backside, soft and languorous.
“I’d like to be taken that way,” I confessed, looking deep into his eyes. “But only with someone I trusted. Who’d care for me and my safety.”
“Come up here,” he said, spreading me over him. “I’m only going to use my finger. You’re already quivering so much.”
“I do like it, it feels exciting, but I don’t know . . . Greyson . . .”
“Shh.” He brushed his lips over mine to quiet me. He was hard under me. He liked touching me, whispering at me as he kissed me and slowly I relaxed as he dipped his thumb into my ass, and when I moaned, he tipped my head back and slowly kissed me some more. “Just relax, let me in.” He teased me with his thumb moving, ever so slowly, in and out, and I began shivering more, moving over him until I felt the wetness seeping from the tip of his cock against my abdomen.
He rolled me to my stomach. In silence, he bent over and bit one ass cheek, cupping the other in his hand as he slid his thumb up my ass again.
“Fold to your knees, Melanie.” He ran his hand down my spine as I did what he said, whimpering softly.
“Greyson, it feels intense . . .”
“Let it take you, princess. Give me this. Fuck, let me watch you come apart like this.”
He stroked his hand up my back while the other kept fingering me. Sensations took over. I whimpered, closing my eyes as his intoxicating touch did new and profound things to me. He nibbled my other ass cheek and f*cked his thumb in three more times, and when he slipped his middle finger into my *, I started coming. And coming. And coming.
He pressed his cock against me as I came, so I could feel it close, tempting me, hard, pulsing, his voice gruff with arousal close to my nape, exposed as he shoved my braid aside.
“Thatta girl,” he purred, pinching my nipples, rubbing the outer rim of my little ass as the contractions eased.
“It was . . . incredible.”
I turned, and he rolled to his back and folded his arms behind his head as I tried to catch my breath. But it was hard to breathe when the air was thick with it—with lust, with want, with this animal, chemical attraction I have never, ever felt. I wanted his cock in me, I wanted to do it all with him, but would he be careful with me?
His body oozed tension, muscles tight with it, cock up at full mast again.
“You’ve had a lot of lovers?” I whispered, gripping him in my hand, strangely jealous.
“Lovers, not really. Fucks, yeah.” He grabbed my face in one hand and gave a firm squeeze to my cheeks. “But I’ve never f*cked a little mouth like yours. Now open up, princess.”
I was wet again as he came up on his knees, pulling me up by the braid. When he filled me, I made eye contact, he didn’t take his eyes off me, watching every swipe of my tongue, every inch I licked, every breath I let caress the length of him. “Fuck,” he rasped, pumping and drawing out his pleasure. I ran my tongue over him, our eyes connected like magnets. “You like that, don’t you?” he cooed. The way he talked to me excited me. If he’d touched me again, I’d have come. I almost slipped my hand between my legs and touched myself. Instead I grabbed the base of him because I wanted him to fantasize about this one blow job whenever it is he plans to leave. . . .
He jetted off and, usually, I pull away when men do, but when I felt him tense up and I was about to pull back, he cooed, “Every last drop of come is yours, Melanie.” He fisted my braid, his eyes demanding and commanding, and suddenly I wanted to please him, taste him, and I did.
I close my eyes briefly and exhale out the memories of yesterday. When I open my eyes, he’s out on the balcony, still on his phone. His legs, thick like tree trunks, are braced apart, long, muscular, and just dusted with hair. His calves are shapely and powerful, his tan golden, his ass perfection, as perfectly molded as the muscled, upside-down triangle of his broad shoulders and narrow hips. And he’s just out there for anyone with binoculars to see, buck naked. Standing right there.