The Pool Boy (Nashville Neighborhood 2)

No more.

I was reinventing myself, and what I was doing now with Troy helped to build the new version of Erika Graham. She was a woman who’d blow a guy half her age in her kitchen in the middle of the day. She was wild and unleashed. And she had no qualms about asking for what she wanted sexually.

This blowjob was murder on my knees, but so fucking worth it.

“Fuck,” he said through tight teeth, “that feels so good.”

I stared up at him as I bobbed my head, letting my tongue roll and cartwheel over his sensitive tip. His eyes were heavy, and his chest rose and fell rapidly with his hurried breath. God, he was so hot, it wasn’t even fair.

His thrusts stopped, but I kept up the tempo. He buried a hand in my hair at the back of my neck, probably wanting to ease me back and slow me down. But he’d unlocked a secret part of me and set it free, and the feral creature I became was desperate to give him satisfaction.

I rocked on my knees, sliding my fist along the length of him in time with my mouth.

There was panic in his voice. “Erika, I’m close.”

I set my free hand on his hip, telling him I wanted this. I tightened my grip on his cock, twisting on each stroke, and gave a hum of approval.

He’d been fighting the urge, trying to hold off, but I made it impossible, and he gave in seconds later. His thrusts resumed, and he pushed deep into my mouth.

“I’m gonna . . .” he gasped. “Fuck. Fuck.”

I froze in place as his movements became shallow and erratic, and the grip in my hair tightened to the point it was uncomfortable, but that only turned me on more.

“Fuck,” he moaned again.

Every rhythmic flex of him filled my mouth as the orgasm surged through, one pulse after another. I swallowed immediately, and that action made him shudder. When he finally stopped throbbing, I retreated.

He was leaning back on his arms, slumped against the counter as he continued to catch his breath, and he gaped at me like he wasn’t sure if I was real. Or if what we’d done had really happened.

Emotion suddenly reared inside me, filling me with alarm. It was so overwhelming, I couldn’t tell if I was about to laugh or cry. So, I did neither. I knelt at his feet and stared at him with wonder.

Dear lord, he stole my breath. His face was glossy with sweat, and his heartbeat seemed to be pulsing in the side of his neck. He gazed at me with satisfaction, but also with a touch of embarrassment, like a student about to admit he hadn’t done his assignment.

I was buzzing, and my warm voice reflected my dreamy state. “What is it?”

His gaze shifted away. “That was over a lot sooner than I wanted it to be.”

If anyone should have been embarrassed, it was me. I’d ruined our chances for anything else. “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry. I was enjoying myself and got carried away.”

He laughed like what I’d said was amazing. He bent and grasped my arms, helped me to my feet, and then pulled me close. “I need fifteen minutes,” he said softly, “and I’ll be ready again.”

“What?”

The corner of his mouth lifted into a sultry smile, and his confidence returned faster than the snap of his fingers. “If you want to go down on me again,” he drawled, “I bet I could be ready in ten.”

TEN

Erika

I stared at the red bodysuit in a heap on the floor as the air conditioner kicked on. I was right under a vent, and when I shivered, Troy walked to my robe, picked it up, and held it out for me to put on.

And when that was done, he gently grasped my face and kissed me, dropping a quick series of playful pecks before growing more serious. His tenderness was disorienting. He was young and supposed to be inexperienced, yet he knew exactly what I needed.

His hand slid down my neck and inside the robe, cupping a breast, and heat began to pool inside my center. He thought he’d need ten minutes, but my body was ready whenever he was. I was dressed in my robe, but he made no effort to put on his clothes.

“You’re still naked,” I whispered.

He grinned lazily. “You noticed that, huh?”

It should have felt uncomfortable and awkward . . . but it didn’t. It had to be him. He had no problem being alone with me in my house—which he’d never stepped foot inside before—and being here sans clothes, he acted like it was perfectly natural.

Like he’d been here all along and I hadn’t noticed him until now.

“Maybe,” he sandwiched between kisses, “we can go somewhere more comfortable? Not that the counter wasn’t fun.”