Mister O(58)

Blow jobs from Harper just might be proof that somewhere, in some other lifetime, I was a very good person. That’s the only way I can possibly explain what I did to deserve the reward of her wicked mouth on my cock.

Like right now, on Wednesday night. She lies on her back on my bed, her head extended over the edge of the mattress, her hands clutched to my hips as I stand, deep in her throat, pumping my hips.

With her neck stretched like that, I can see the outline of my dick as she sucks. She loves trying new positions, like bent over the couch last night, like 69 earlier this evening—though it was closer to 61 since she was riding my face so blissfully, she couldn’t keep me in her mouth. And this one, too—the upside-down blow job. The best part? It’s not how spectacular this feels—though trust me, she sends me straight to some kind of ecstatic oblivion with her tongue and lips and mouth—the best part is I can tell how much she likes it by the way her back bows off the bed, and how she rocks her hips up and down. I’m loving everything, too. The way her hair spills wildly over the covers, how her nails dig into my flesh, and most of all, how when she moans, she’s literally humming around my dick as she sucks me hard.

I’m moaning, too.

That’s the problem. I could come in another minute if I let her go on like this. But I just can’t. I’m not that selfish. I love her orgasms more than my own. Even as a fresh round of pleasure crashes into me, I find the will—Herculean task though it is—to pull my dick out of her lush mouth.

Her eyes are dazed as she stares at me, upside-down.

“Sit on me, Dirty Princess,” I tell her as I sink down to the bed, grab a condom, and cover myself in seconds. I pull her up, then position her reverse cowgirl style on my cock.

We groan in unison as I bury myself in her. I loop my hands around her and cup her tits as she thrusts up and down, picking up the pace quickly, her back flush to my chest.

“This won’t take you long, will it?” I whisper in her ear.

She shakes her head against me as she moans.

“Play with your *,” I instruct her. “Touch your clit as you f*ck me.”

Her right hand slips between her legs, and she rubs as she grinds on me. “I’ve gotten off to you so many times, Nick.”

Those words send me spinning. Lust spirals in me, torquing into something more potent and powerful. Something that’s born of late-night fantasies and months of longing. “Me too, princess. I think about you all the time. I’ve f*cked you so many times by myself.”

“Was it this good for you?” she asks, her breath uneven as her fingers fly over her clit, and my cock pushes in and out of her tight, wet heat.

“No,” I grunt, as her gorgeous back slides against my chest. “Nothing compares to the real thing with you.” Because she is all my fantasies, only better, so much better.

“It’s so good with you,” she says on a broken pant. She shudders, her breath hitches, and her words come out in a hot whisper. “I’m going to come all over you.”

“Do it, princess. Come on me,” I growl, because she loves to talk, she loves to announce her orgasms, and she loves to tell me when she’s coming, and I relish every single dirty, sweet, and filthy word to fall from her lips.

She circles her hips, rubs faster, and slams down hard as she cries out, “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”

Her sounds and her shudders flip the switch, and I follow her to my own sweet annihilation. My entire body jerks as my climax crashes over me, assaulting me with pleasure. I groan against her neck. “You kill me, Harper,” I say roughly in her ear. “I come so hard with you, you know that?”

She sighs, a sexy murmur telling me how much she likes hearing those words. “I love it when you come,” she says, in a breathless admission. “I love hearing your noises. I love the way you grip me tighter, how your breathing goes wild.”

It’s such an intimate moment, unraveling for someone, letting go of all control. And, yeah, giving orgasms is my favorite hobby—but it’s f*cking awesome that she wants mine so much. Maybe that’s why they’re so good with her. Because I feel even more. More intensity. More vulnerability. Like she knows me.

“That’s what you do to me,” I tell her, brushing my lips to her cheek. “You make me go crazy.”

She leans her head back against my collarbone and loops her arms behind my head.

When her fingers play with my hair, I shudder. “I love that, too. What you’re doing,” I whisper.

“I know,” she says, her voice so soft. “You’ve always liked it when I touch your hair.”

Electricity sparks in my body, and I’m not sure if it’s the aftershocks or some new high from what she just said. Because it’s not just that she knows me. It’s that she’s figured me out. She’s learned my likes (numerous) and my dislikes (so very few), and then my absolute favorites, and she seems to want to give me as many of those as she can. She launched into this project ready and eager to discover what she liked, but she’s quickly discovered me. And hell, I’m not picky—but I have my turn-ons, too. The lingerie she wears, the words she says, and the dirty things I can say to her, too.

“It’s like you’re studying me,” I say, something like wonder in my tone.

“Maybe I am. Does that bother you?”