Light Her Fire (Private Pleasures 2)

Josh started to tell her, “Next time,” but she didn’t wait for his answer. She just reached in and caressed him through his boxer shorts. His cock went heavy as blood rushed south, then harder than ever as she continued to toy with him.

“Bluelick, what are you planning in your dirty little mind?”

Still smiling, she went down on her knees. Then, in a flashback from last night, she pulled his jeans and boxers down. All thought fled his brain when she leaned in and teased his head with her tongue. Every muscle in his body tensed at the thought of her mouth on him. Last night might have given her the wrong impression, though. Tonight he wouldn’t be content with a handful of shallow, lubricating thrusts. If she took him, she needed to be prepared to take all of him. “You wore the pink, so you’re asking for it. You know I’m going to fuck you. But I’m also going to warn you, I’m not some polite country boy. If you put me in your mouth, I’m going to fuck your mouth. We clear on that?”

Apparently yes, because she took him in with a long, slow, ever-deepening kiss. Her hair and the angle of her head blocked his view—which had to change because he needed to see her—but he took a moment to appreciate the sensation of being cradled in all her soft heat. A pulse beat strong and steady there, and he couldn’t be sure if it came from her, him, or some perfectly timed combination. Then she applied suction. Long and hard enough to wring a groan out of him as she worked her way back up. He buried his fingers in her hair, fisted his hand to hold the waves away from her face, and tugged her head back a fraction.

Their eyes met. Hers contained the hint of a question. “I need to see your face, so I know when you can’t take anymore…and when you can. Right now, you can take more.” So saying, he pushed his hips forward, and fed his cock deeper into her mouth, losing an ounce of precious control at the sight of her full, wet lips sliding along his shaft. When he reached the point where the rest was up to her, he paused. “Come on, Bluelick, own it. Take what you want.”

She adjusted her body, coming up higher on her knees, and then worked a hand between his legs. Using his balls as a rudder, she steered him into the delta at the back of her throat.

“Fuck me,” he grunted, “that works.”

She reversed course, faster now, and came down again, picking up more speed, but not sacrificing attention to detail. Reverse and repeat. Reverse and repeat. He thrust his hips—just a little—in counterpoint to the movement of her head, in part so she didn’t have to do all the work, and in part because he couldn’t stand still. “That’s it,” he growled, as she came down again. “Finish me off. Any way you want.” He loved that she didn’t stiffen up, or switch out her mouth for her hand. Loved that nothing he’d done, or was about to do, crossed Miss Bluelick’s line.

Or maybe he had crossed a line, because she nudged her index finger alongside his cock. When she lowered her head again, she slipped her finger into her mouth along with him. What the…?

Next thing he knew, that wet finger speared between his legs, behind his balls, and…whoa…what the holy fucking…A.

She drove deep enough to force a groan from him. Deep enough to find the spot she sought, because a light exploded behind his eyes, which could only be his brain short-circuiting. His knees threatened

to buckle. The breath rushed from his lungs on a long, ragged curse, and every last synapse in his nervous system caught fire as she sucked the orgasm right out of his cock.

By the time most of his senses kicked back online, Melody had abandoned the south post, and was kissing and nuzzling his completely wrung-out, extraordinarily grateful dick. Amazing as it felt, he eased back, because she deserved only his best—his biggest, hardest best. He’d never considered himself an all-or-nothing guy, but there it was.

She gave him a round-eyed look and a half-smile, and then got to her feet. “Would you like a glass of wine or a beer?”

“A beer sounds good.” He tucked himself back into his pants, carefully, and trailed after her as she led the way into her kitchen. She headed to the center island and downed the rest of a glass of wine sitting on the butcher-block surface, and then turned to the sink and washed her hands. The move caused him to mentally replay the last few seconds of the most satisfying blow job of his life.

“Things got a little fuzzy toward the end. Did you stick your—”

“Yes.” She dried her hands, took a beer from the fridge, and popped the top. A bit of foam bubbled out. “Did you…um…did you like it?”

He laughed and accepted the bottle. He’d just come in her throat with all the restraint of a broken water main, and she asked if he’d liked it? A deadpan “What do you think, Bluelick?” sprang to mind, and he was about to give voice to the reply when she turned to face him. He read genuine uncertainty in her stunning face. A series of facts toppled like a line of dominoes in his mind. She’d grown up with Roger, been engaged to him since her senior year. Was it possible she’d never been with anyone else, and she honestly didn’t know if the reaction she’d just pulled from him was normal, above-average, or extraordinary?

“You destroyed me, Bluelick. I hope you’re proud of yourself. Every time I see your gorgeous mouth I’m going to get hard, because now I know what you can do with it. You point at something and I’m liable to come in my pants. I’m going to be walking around town like some pervert with a hair-trigger boner. That’s all on you.”

She beamed and looked proud as hell, which had him congratulating himself on the compliment. “The finger thing was an interesting twist. Took me by surprise.”

“Not good?”

“I didn’t say that.” Portions of his anatomy clenched in remembrance and appreciation.

“That’s a relief. I wasn’t sure you’d be into the A-play, but…well…I heard it was a guaranteed man-pleaser.”

“You heard that, huh?” He didn’t need three guesses from whom. “Did I just get the Roger Reynolds special?”

She stared at him and then giggled. A full-out laugh followed. The laugh evolved into waves of laughter she bit her lip to try to contain. She dropped onto one of the two high stools tucked around island, covered her mouth with her hand, and proceeded to shake in stifled silence—like he’d made the funniest joke in the world. He waited—okay, fumed—while she got herself under control. Finally, she wiped her eyes, pressed her hand to her chest, and looked at him. “Whoo. Sorry about that. You did kind of get the Roger Reynolds special, but not the way you’re thinking. Actually I, ah, I spoke to him just before you arrived.”

Roger? Fucking awesome. Just what he wanted to hear. He took a long, bitter sip of the watered-down travesty some beverage conglomerate had the balls to call beer, and swallowed. “I thought he was on vacation.”

“He is, but he called me tonight because—”

“You two can’t go a week without talking? For a woman who keeps insisting she’s not stuck on her ex, I gotta say, your actions are speaking louder than your words.” And the situation bothered the shit out of him. And the fact that it did, bothered him even more. He should shut up, and get on board for some mutually satisfying rebound sex, but something inside him balked at the notion of serving as her second choice.

She glared at him. “Can I finish my sentence?”

At least he wasn’t the only one irritated now. “Absolutely.” He pulled out the other stool and settled in. “Please tell me every riveting detail of your conversation with Roger. Does he miss you? Let me guess. He wants you back.”