Hook Shot (Hoops 3)

26

Lotus

On the ride to Kenan’s apartment, we sit in the back of the Uber holding hands, that one point of contact reverberating through every cell of my body. We speak very little, but there’s no need. The air grows heavy with unspoken want and smothered desire. My head spins with fantasies of how he will please me tonight. How I might please him. I’m not planning for this to be the night, but I’m more open to him than I’ve ever been to anyone. It’s not just sex I want, which is all I’ve ever had. It’s that elusive intimacy—the sharing and exchange.

He doesn’t release my hand on our brisk walk through the lobby. As soon as we step onto the elevator, he turns my back to the wall and takes up the seduction his silence began on the long ride home. He nips at my lips, and kisses down my chin and over my breasts, suckling my nipple through my blouse.

“Kenan,” I breathe, my head flung back against the elevator paneling. “I want this.”

He kisses the curve of my neck and shoulder. The elevator dings and opens, and he tugs me by the hand to the door. His long strides make it hard to keep up, but my eagerness has me stumbling to try. Once inside, he turns my back to the wall and goes down on his knees in front of me, a supplicant king. He brushes his tongue repeatedly over the flower blooming around my belly button. I moan, digging my fingers into the dense, ungiving muscles of his shoulders. He drops lower, kissing my pussy through the sheer, fluffy layers of tulle and silk panties, a growl jerked from his throat when he inhales.

“Fuck, you smell . . .” He glances up, his eyes dark and feral. “You smell like you want me.”

“I do.” My voice is as ragged as my resistance—as frayed as my control. I frantically pull my skirt above my thighs and expose my panties and myself. “So much.”

Groaning, he runs his nose up and down the front of my pussy and mouths me through the panties, greedily seeking, finding, sucking my clit through silk and lace. I scratch the wooden door at my back, looking

for purchase, for strength to stand. I can’t bear another minute without his mouth on me. Brazen, desperate, I pull the panties aside. His mouth seizes me, feasting, licking in the slit, taking my lips hostage between his. He reaches up, his huge hand grazing my stomach and sliding under my cropped shirt to squeeze the pierced nipple.

I don’t know how I’ll get what I need without fucking him. I need to be filled with him. I need every inch of this empty space inside me occupied, taken over by his body, by his patience and care. By him.

I pull away and go down in front of him, heedless of the marble floor, cold and hard under my knees. I grab his neck, pull him toward me, take his mouth with mine and taste myself on his tongue, an erotic recognition that tightens my nipples and leaks down my thighs. My hands fumble with his belt—I’m trembling with the need to have him. He doesn’t stop or help me, but thrusts one hand into my hair and rubs between my legs with the other, sneaking under the panties to insert two fingers inside me.

I go still against his chest, my breath stilted, my hands useless on his zipper, my hips rolling in time with the fingers invading and retreating. His thumb rubs my clit while he fingers me with dogged certainty, his eyes locked with mine.

“Oh, God.” My head drops to his chest as a tingle begins in my toes and flutters through my calves, my knees, my legs, and converges to the spot he is still ruthlessly, methodically possessing. And then I can’t fight it. With one hand on his zipper, the other clenched around his bicep, I come. The orgasm runs rampant over my body, leaving no part of me untouched. A scream rips through me—rips through the apartment. Dry sobs tear at my throat and, wracked with pleasure, I bury my face in his neck, open my mouth over the muscled curve, and bite down. He tenses, growls, his muscles tight under my hands.

We go still. I draw back enough to look into his eyes, and our labored breaths collide between our mouths. Not releasing his gaze, I lower his zipper, slip my hand into his jeans, and pull on him through his briefs.

“Lotus,” he mutters, his eyelids hanging heavy, his pupils blown wide with lust.

I don’t wait for whatever he’ll say next, but push on his shoulder, coaxing him to his back, to the marble floor. I urge his shirt up and lick my lips at the sight of his torso, a slab of sculpted muscles. And those nipples.

My weakness.

I straddle his belly and bend to take one into my mouth. I moan at the taste of him—the smooth and rough texture on my tongue. I reach down and pull his dick out, rubbing up and down in rhythm with my head bobbing over his chest, sucking his nipples. He emits gruff, strangled sounds and plunges his hand into my hair, urging my head downward. I yield, leaving kisses as I descend. I whisper “yes” over his pecs, the sturdy cage of his ribs, the contraction of his abs.

His belt is already undone. His zipper, down. I glance up, ensnaring his eyes when my mouth reaches the most vulnerable part of him. I gulp. Kenan is a big man. I assumed he’d be no different here, and I was right.

“God, you’re beautiful,” I tell him, not even trying to keep the reverence from my voice. He’s perfectly formed, chiseled, massive.

Mine. For tonight, for as long as I can keep him, mine.

I take his dick down my throat and swallow, relishing the wild sounds he gives me as a reward. I lick up and down, from root to crown, not overlooking an inch. I dip lower, taking his balls into my mouth one at a time, lavishing them until they’re shiny, wet, slick.

“Fuck, Lotus,” he moans, both hands fisted in my hair so tightly it stings. I don’t care. I just want to feel with him. I slip my tongue into the slit at his tip, and at the first taste of the salty milkiness, I lose control. I’m a starved beast, gripping his powerful thighs with my hands, the rough hairs abrading my palms. I’m manipulating his balls and taking him so far down my throat I choke, saliva pooling in my mouth and running from the corners.

“Baby, I’m coming.”

I nod jerkily, holding his hips in place and taking him down farther. My throat contracts around him with every hard-won gulp.

“Jesus, Lotus.” His handsome features twisting with agonizing pleasure, he caresses my jaw as it works around him.

The first warm spurt coats my tongue and the roof of my mouth, and rushes down my throat. I moan at the taste of him. Voracious, I hollow my cheeks to milk him of every drop. When the stream finally stops, I lick from the base to the tip, gathering all of him that I can. Saving the taste, savoring him. When I’ve licked him clean, I crawl up his chest and tuck myself into the crook of his arm, my ear pressed to his heart seeking its reassuring thump. His fingers sift through my hair, and one large finger traces the blossoming zipper tattooed up my spine.

We lie there for a long time, heedless of the fact that the marble floor of his foyer is cold and hard. Heedless of the messy stickiness we coaxed from each other’s bodies. It’s quiet, except for our slow, calming breaths filling the air. Our bodies are teaching us the scope of true intimacy. It’s another’s pleasure over yours. It’s hunger unique to one other person—satisfied only by him. Only by her.

“That was . . .” Kenan’s words fail, trail away, but I don’t need them.