See Me After Class(61)
Harder.
Faster.
More forceful.
My fingers move in tandem with my tongue.
Her muffled sounds grow faster, louder.
My cock juts against the counter, seeking relief as well.
Her legs tense.
My tongue fires over her sensitive spot.
My balls tighten and fuck . . . fuck, my entire body is ignited.
Her torso quivers.
Faster.
Harder.
Flick. Flick. Flick . . .
“Ohhhhh,” she cries out, her legs tensing, her back arching, and she comes.
Fuck . . . yes.
My tongue flies over her clit at a relentless pace, pulling out every last ounce of her orgasm until I hear her surrender, and watch her lower to the counter.
Mother of God, I’m hard. It’s painful, as my cock juts against the fabric of my briefs, aching for relief.
I pull away, taking the towel that supported her knees, I wipe it across my face and then set it on the counter where she lies, sated, trying to catch her breath. I take a moment to pick up her thong and stuff it in the waistband of my briefs, so it’s not discovered by Coraline tomorrow morning.
Smoothing my hand over her ass, I give her a few more seconds and then turn her around, adjust her tank, and lift her up into my arms. She rests her head against my chest as I carry her through the first floor of my house and to the guest room. I push the door open with my foot, then take her to the bed, the entire walk fucking painful from how turned on I am.
I move the covers over her body and consider sitting next to her, but think otherwise, knowing that will only result in me crawling into bed with her.
“Goodnight, Miss Gibson.”
“Arlo, wait.” She sits up. “Come here.”
I take a step back. My erection’s quite obvious in my briefs, begging to be freed and buried in her beautiful mouth.
“What are you doing? Let me give you release.”
“Not necessary.” I take another step away. “Get some rest.” Looking her dead in the eyes, I say, “And do not follow me. Do you hear me? You’re not to leave this bed until the morning.”
“Why are you being like this?”
“My house, my rules.”
“You didn’t even kiss me.”
“Were you looking for intimacy or release, Miss Gibson? Release I can give you, intimacy should be sought out with someone else.”
Her eyebrows pull together. “Why are you against intimacy?”
“I’m not here for a therapy session.” Reaching the door, I ask, “Do you need anything else?”
“Your dick in my mouth,” she answers. And God, do I need that. Her. Sucking my cock down her throat.
Five steps. That’s all it would take for me to be in her hot and filthy mouth.
But I won’t. Can’t.
Gripping the doorway, I say, “You should be so lucky.” I’m lying. I would be the lucky son of a bitch.
But that’s not who I am. Lucky.
And then I leave before I lose my damn mind.
Chapter Thirteen
GREER
“Good morning,” Arlo says, walking into the kitchen, freshly showered and in a pair of jeans and plain white T-shirt. Hair still wet and smelling incredible, masculine—he’s every bit of a fantasy I had last night.
I woke up this morning thinking what happened last night was a dream, that is, until I found my thong on my nightstand and a note next to it. In his sharp handwriting, all it said was “You taste like fucking honey.”
I then proceeded to throw myself back against the plush white pillows and drape my arm over my face.
It wasn’t a dream.
It was all real.
I was on my hands and knees on top of Arlo’s kitchen island while he ate me from behind.
It was erotic.
Something I’ve never done, nor thought I’d ever do.
And it unleashed something inside of me, a carnal need that’s never been tapped into before. That man is provocative, seductive, demanding, and even though I’ve had a few boyfriends, none of them compare to Arlo Turner. He seems so strait-laced, but God, is he not. You taste like fucking honey. My mouth was literally salivating, desperate to wrap around his cock. Another first.
And yet he denied me. How can a man so virile—amorous—have such crazy self-control?
“When was the last time a man fucked you?”
“I don’t know—”
“Never is the correct answer, Miss Gibson. Because you’ve never been fucked by me.”
Just from the memory, I reached between my legs and attempted to ease the growing ache until I came. But it wasn’t satisfying. It wasn’t even close to what I needed. It was a means to an end. What I need is him.
Arlo.
I want his hands.
His tongue.
His mouth.
His cock.
I want it all.
“Ugh, wine always gives me the worst headaches,” Cora says, as she stands next to a glass of orange juice on the counter, the exact spot where Arlo fucked me with his tongue last night. “It was a feat on its own prying my eyes open this morning.” Turning to Arlo, she asks, “I’m going to get some breakfast burritos from around the corner with at least a dozen hash brown patties. Want anything?”