Caged (Mastered, #4)(98)
He yelped when she squeezed his balls.
He fisted his hands in the sheets and not her hair when she deep throated him.
He whimpered at the wet lash of her tongue over his anus.
Molly had him so wound up—belly muscles quivering, quads as tight as if he’d performed a hundred squats that even his freakin’ knees were sweating by the time she unleashed his orgasm. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked every hot spurt, her fingers loosely circling his shaft as she stroked and the tip of her finger swirling around his anus.
Deacon tried to hold on, tried to remain cognizant, but the pleasure swamped him and he gave in to it. Then sleep beckoned, and he couldn’t ignore the summons.
The last thing he remembered was Molly snuggling into him with a softly whispered, “Let’s hope your dreams are much sweeter now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
BEING naked in bed with Deacon defined decadent.
Being naked in bed with Mr. MMA brooding badass after he’d poured his heart and soul out to her, confessed his love, and then proved it, oh, twice? Downright heavenly. Her body, throbbing from Deacon’s very thorough attentions, the heat, the weight, the scent of him all over her . . . She knew there’d never be another man for her.
Deacon bent down to nuzzle the side of her breast. “You trying to get me hard again with that sound?”
“What sound?”
“That sexy little hum you make when you’re thinking about us f*cking.”
“Does it bother you?”
He didn’t look up when he said, “It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Better than when I make that sexy little f*cking moan you get crazy possessive about?” she teased.
“You make soft need-you noises when I start to touch you. You make desperate-to-come noises when I’m inside you. But that little hum I hear after I’ve f*cked you? It lets me know you’re still thinking about me f*cking you.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Will it get your back up if I say that’s sweet?”
“I ain’t sweet, babe. Not f*cking ever.”
Wrong. But she’d keep those moments to herself. When she caressed the smooth line of his head, down to the back of his neck, he sighed. His reaction to her touch was one of the sweetest things ever.
“You still seem tense. Want a back rub?”
Deacon raised his head. “You’d do that?”
“Let’s see . . . putting my hands all over this body, an outstanding example of masculine perfection? Damn. Such a chore. What was I thinking? I rescind my offer, because touching you would totally suck.”
“You wanna suck me too, I’m good with that. Because, babe, you are very good at that.”
“Thanks. Roll over.” Molly shifted and slid down to straddle his naked ass. Maybe she should try to keep some of her weight off him by balancing on her knees. Nah. He’d notice and chew her out for her body-image issues, so he’d just have to suffer if she squished his dick.
Before she dug her fingers into his muscles, she ran her hands across the broad expanse of his back. She’d seen his tattoo before, but she hadn’t studied it this close.
The angel’s wings spread from one shoulder to the other and stretched down to his hips. The feathers faded from black to gray. The detail was breathtaking, utilizing his skin as part of the shading, which accentuated the solid lines. When he moved, his muscles gave the ink fluidity.
His arms were in a blocky U shape against the mattress. She noticed the symmetry between the tats on his arms with the one large piece on his back. Two thick black bands circled both of his biceps and were connected with what looked like a DNA chain. From that point down, the designs on each arm were different. He hadn’t gone with full sleeves—not yet anyway. These tats weren’t strictly shades of black, but bold colors interwoven in the chains and scrolls, creating patterns and yet total chaos.
“You’re quiet.”
Molly traced a spiral of green that looked like a fern frond beginning to unfurl. “Just admiring your ink.” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss behind his ear. “It’s beautiful.”
“Not everyone thinks so.”
“Does anyone who’s not in this bed matter?”
Deacon didn’t answer.
His silence didn’t bother her. Because she knew his initial knee-jerk reaction was from defending the art on his body. And it pained her to admit, but at one time she’d been judgmental about men and women who sported tats. She hadn’t understood the beauty in personal expression until she’d gone to college. Her roommate had decided to mark the pivotal points in her life with ink as a daily reminder of life’s joys and sorrows.
Molly hadn’t gotten quite brave enough to do that. “Can you tell me what any of them mean?”
“The angel’s wings . . . That artist I told you about who did the art in my living room drew them for me. I had the outline of the tat started on the one-year anniversary of Dante’s death. Every year I added more until it was finished. Since then I’ve had sections of it re-inked every year, so I . . .”
“So you don’t forget the pain and suffering you went through on that day and what you lost.”
“Jesus. How did you know?”