No Ordinary Gentleman

Licking. Learning. All the things.

I want the full Alexander experience. Something tells me it isn’t to be missed.

“Oh, God. I need—we should—”

“You should stop trying to get away,” he growls as his hands push me impossibly wide. “You might give me a complex.”

Or you might give me an orgasm before I’m ready for it.

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” A demand delivered in a honeyed purr. “Come for me, Holland. Let me taste you. Come on my tongue.”

My brain shuts off. Shuts down. A misfire in the cerebral wiring, halting my next word, because . . . oh my. His fingers curled deep inside of me, he reaches that secret part of me that the previous men in my life have never once found. The part of me that makes my thighs twitch and my eyes roll to the back of my head. If I had the wherewithal to be embarrassed, I might regret the keening cry that rings through the room.

“That’s better.” His masculine groan resonates between my legs, just adding to the deliciousness.

I press the back of my hand to my mouth, gasping like a caught thing. A captured thing. A thing that belongs to him.

“Please!” Please what, I don’t know. Please stop. Please never let go as he sucks my clit into his mouth, sucking and grazing it exquisitely with his teeth. I detonate. Implode. Arch against his mouth’s torturous assault, my hands gripping his hair, my body demanding more, through an orgasm that seems unceasing.

But everything ends. And I’m left panting, stretched out across the bed. Or maybe I should say that everything ends, except where Alexander is concerned, everything ends when he says so as, in an almost intimate action, he pushes his hands under my thighs and slides his fingers through mine. Fingers that tighten almost reassuringly for a beat. Tighten then pin my hands to the bed.

“Alexander . . .” His name is a plea for mercy, my flesh tightening as his plan becomes clear, positioned to his pleasure as I am. Something seems to unlock inside me even before his mouth returns to its torturous plans, a bittersweet ache rising through me. At the first press of his perfectly despicable tongue, I arch and twist, struggling for freedom, crying out when I find no escape. This is all too much. A sensory overload that I can barely take. But take I do. I take every lick and growled compliment, every graze of his roughened cheek against my thighs.

And I love being restrained. Who knew?

I take all that Alexander has to give, as he pleasures me with his mouth, as he fucks me with his tongue. As he laps and pets, stretching and twisting my orgasm into something fierce. Pleasuring me with a chastisement growled into my very centre. There is no flowery description for what the man does. Not as he demands I come again.

“Come for me, Holland. That’s it, let me feel you coming all over my tongue.”

Something sleek and hot rushes through me. Gushes from me. My cries are raw and hoarse as my body begins to convulse, my insides quickening. I’m certain the only thing keeping me from an out-of-body experience is the grip of his hands and breadth of his shoulders pinning me to the bed.

I watch through heavy lids and from some other plane as Alexander rears above me like some mythical deity. His hair is a mess from my hands, and his mouth smeared lewdly with my pleasure.

“How is it you can turn pinker still?”

Those weren’t words of criticism, more like wonder as his hand falls to his belt. I feel like I’m almost sinking into myself again, feeling a little full of wonder myself.

“I have never . . .” done that. Come so hard that I saw stars being born. Squeezed a man’s head between my thighs to make him stop . . . or never stop.

“No?” His lips quirk in one corner, not exactly teasing but something more satisfied.

I can relate to satisfaction. Boy, can I.

I wonder if I’ve been missing out by dating guys my own age. Is this what people mean when they talk about the benefit of experience? Why aren’t I curling in on myself, ready for sleep? Because of the man on his knees in front of me. The man looking down at me as though I were something special when it’s really the other way around. His skin is the kind of gold that speaks of endless summers, and his body not the kind that was honed in a gym, I think. The fabric of his pants clings to strong thighs, his torso bared to reveal biceps and pectoral muscles for days. Bands of muscle bisect his stomach, a light fuzz of hair meandering from his navel down. His is undoubtably a beautiful body, but he isn’t some shredded gym god. More like someone who knows how a body works.