After Hours (InterMix)(52)

“You thinking about my cock?”

“About your hands.”

“What about them?”

“It feels. So f*cking good.” I nearly laughed, just from how ridiculous and overwrought I sounded, and yes, from how f*cking good his hands felt.

“I could make you come if I wanted,” he whispered. “Just like I did in your bed.”

Yes yes yes. Now now now.

“But you got off easy that night. Bring your legs together.”

His hands left me, the most torturous neglect ever. I was too lust-drunk to understand his order, but then he was tugging at my panties and I caught on. I shimmied my legs close enough for him to push my underwear to my knees, then got them kicked away. Another gruff directive spread my thighs back open; so much cool air, so much shocking heat. He clasped my breast with one strong hand and the other slipped between my legs. The pad of his thumb rubbed my clit with maddening, blunt strokes, as those fingertips went right back to taunting me—promising penetration but showing no signs of delivering anytime soon.

The sweep of his fingers, the squeeze of the palm holding my breast. The stiff length of his cock digging into my spine like a hostage-taker’s gun. And his words, his f*cking words.

“Still only thinking about my hands?”

“Your hands. And your voice. And your dick.”

“What about my dick?”

“About . . . About how it’ll feel.”

Without warning, he pushed two fingers inside me to the middle knuckle.

I clasped his wrist. “Oh.”

“Shhh.” He drew them out, basting my clit in the wetness, then drove back inside. Three fingers, now? Or was I just so swollen that it felt like that many? He kept them stiff and straight, and my mind wandered right where he surely wanted it, to the hard heat between his legs.

“Now tell me what you’re thinking about.”

“Your cock.”

Harder and faster, his fingers plunged. Then suddenly he stopped, drew them out slowly and brought them to his mouth. He moaned as he tasted me. Tasted what he’d done to me. The next breath, he slid them back inside me, pace resumed like he’d never stopped.

“Oh God.”

“Say my name.”

“Kelly.”

“Good. You got permission to say that anytime you like. Now tell me what you want from my cock.”

“Whatever you’ll give me.”

Another of those nasty chuckles hummed in my ear, and his f*cking fingers slowed. “Good answer, sweetheart. You want me to tell you what I plan to give you?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t work that way.”

Of course it didn’t. I want what I want, when and how I want it.

I was left waiting for the whims of Kelly’s cock to assert themselves. Aching, I lost myself in the steady, explicit violation of his fingers, imagining watching his length sink inside me. Imagining how he’d be, when he finally lost control. I knew how he’d sound—I’d recorded every word and grunt and breath from that night in my bed and replayed it when I got myself off, a dozen times at least. But what he might look like, I could only guess. Mean, surely. Mean, but helpless. Kelly Robak, helpless from what I could make him feel. The notion was as hot as his pounding fingers.

I shifted, needing something, anything, just the flex of my own hips to spur the desire. Kelly seemed to mistake the gesture for restlessness. The spread fingers cupping my breast crept up my neck, slid into my hair and tightened. You’re not going anywhere, his fist told me. You stay right here and you come when I make you come.

It was the singularly most erotic touch I’d ever felt—the coldest, hottest, cruelest sensation.

A snatch of memory visited me, of my pitching a fit when an old boyfriend had grasped my hair when I’d been giving him head. It had hurt, and worse, it’d made me feel like he’d written me into some porn scene. I’d signed up to be with a nice guy, not some porno-jack-off hair-grabber, and he’d violated my expectations. How dare he not conform to the script I’d composed when I cast him as my gentle lover? How dare he try to recast me as some slap-around slut whose hair he got to grab while he f*cked my mouth? The poor thing. He’d probably just thought it’d be hot, and hoped maybe I’d be into it. Instead I’d snapped and ranted at him for five minutes. Shamed him for treating me like that.

I could be a real control freak, with guys. With nice guys.