Getting Played

“I want this. I want to feel you

inside me.”

He groans, diving back in. “That’s a great answer.”

He kisses my breasts over the lace of my bra, sliding to his knees, nibbling my stomach on the way down. My jeans are unbuttoned, tugged down and off my legs.

“What do you want?” I ask, because I want to hear his words.

For a moment, he stares at the pale, pink lace of my panties.

“I want to make you come so many fucking times.”

That sentence—and the rough, needy way he says it—almost makes me come all by itself.

Dean pulls me forward by my hips, pushing my panties aside, and puts his mouth on me. And he goes down on me like a guy who really, really likes going down on a woman. He takes his time, kissing me open-mouthed—swirling his tongue and sucking gently at my flesh.

Heat surges through my veins and it feels like the floor has left the building—like I’m about to fall, about to fly. My nails scrape the wall beside me for something to hold on to.

Dean’s voice is low and husky. “You taste like fucking candy.” He skims my panties all the way down and off, then he looks up at me—into my eyes. “Open your legs for me, Lainey.”

And it’s the sexiest moment of my life.

Until I do.

And Dean spreads me with his fingers, and drags his tongue up and down, slow and deliberate. He slides his fingers inside me, pumping his hand, and his tongue moves to my clit, making tight, hard circles over and over. I’ve never had an orgasm in this position—standing up—but Dean seems hell-bent and determined to make it happen.

His fingers, tongue and lips work me over in the same rhythm. And that decadent, telltale pressure starts low in my stomach, building and cresting and spreading out through my limbs.

“Oh, God,” I whimper. “Oh, God.”

My hips rotate all on their own, and I grip Dean’s hair—pressing mindlessly against his face. The sensations claw and climb higher and higher, until a deep moan drags out of me that would make a porn star blush. And everything goes tight and pulsing and I’m plummeting with the pleasure—falling so hard, right over the edge.

Before I can come all the way down, Dean skims up my body, and I cling to him on shaky limbs as he lifts me off my feet, kissing me down the hall to the bedroom. He sets me on the bed, the blanket cool and downy against my knees. And I curl my way around him—like a cat worshiping her scratching post. I kiss his shoulders, his chest—everywhere I can reach.

I make a wet trail down his torso, tracing the lines of his abs with my tongue. I kiss the V of his pelvis—that sexy, sculpted indentation that disappears down the waist of his jeans. I rip at the button of his pants and push them down his hips because I’ve felt the massive bulge between his legs—and now I want to see it.

I want to taste it.

When his jeans are a puddle on the floor beside him, I’m not disappointed.

Dean’s cock is beautiful. It seems silly to think of a dick as beautiful—but this one is. The kind that should be sketched in a high-level art class or described in vivid detail in a bestselling romance novel. It’s big, thick, velvety smooth and rock-hard, with a glistening rounded head that I want to feel between my lips and down my throat.

I wrap my hand around him, pumping, and then take him in my mouth, swirling with my tongue, leaving him nice and wet. I tighten my lips around his shaft, dragging back, then moving down again—all the way—until the head of his dick taps the opening of my throat.

“Fuuuck.” His mouth opens on a groan above me. “That’s so good.” And the hot gravel of his voice turns me on even more.

I suck him hard, bobbing slow, taking him deeper, making it good for both of us. I clench my thighs—feeling the slippery heat between my legs, because he tastes so good.

Then Dean’s gripping my upper arms, pulling me up, kissing me hard.

And I mumble out rushed words against his lips.

“I don’t do this.”

I don’t know why I want him to know, but I do. That for me, this is something different. New. Special.

“I never do this, Dean. Ever.”

“You should.” He touches my cheek, my hair. “You should do this all the time. You’re really good at it.”

And then we’re falling back onto the bed—a tumble of laughing limbs and moans. We roll around, mangling the sheets. Dean’s body is a wonderland, and I explore every bit of it. And he plays me like an instrument. He teases and tortures me, strums his slick fingers between my legs, rubbing and petting, while his lips wrap around my nipple, sucking in long, slow drags.

Dean’s a multitasker—and it’s glorious.

Then he’s climbing over me, kneeling between my spread thighs. I watch as he brings a condom wrapper to his mouth and tears it with his teeth.

“That’s so hot.” I moan, reaching for him.

It’s like a whole new porn fetish category—I could watch this man rip open condom wrappers all night long.

He takes himself in his hand, his movements sure and confident, and rolls the latex down his length, pinching the condom at the tip. And he’s so hard when he presses against my opening—so big when he pushes inside. We moan, long and low, as our bodies rock together.

All my senses are focused right there—where we’re connected—on the surging feel of him filling me where I’m tight and wet around him.

Dean’s head rolls back on his shoulders. “Your pussy is heaven.” He holds my hip for leverage, thrusting. “Literal heaven.”

And I love it. The sound of his voice, the color of his eyes, the taut contraction of his muscles, the relentless breach of his cock, the feel of his solid hips between my thighs. I love how his big hands hold my waist, lifting me, angling me to take all of him. I love how his spine curves and chin dips low, and how he watches himself disappear inside me.

I love it when he rolls us over, so he’s flat on his back and I’m straddling him.

“Ride me.” His voice is jagged and raw. “Ride me, Lainey.”

And I love that too.

I straighten my back, arching, my hair falling long all around. And I swivel my hips and squeeze my muscles hard around him—he’s so deep this way, and I want to feel every inch.

Dean grips my ass in his large hands, sliding me back and forth. And I love the way he looks up at me—the heavy-lidded heat in his eyes and the harsh rise and fall of his chest—that makes me feel every bit as beautiful as he said I was.

I love all of it. Every moment. This wild rollercoaster of perfect, aching, pleasure.

Dean lifts up, licking my breast, kissing my neck. Then he cradles the back of my head as he shifts again, taking us down, so he’s on top. And he glides back and forth into me—riding me in smooth, steady strokes.

“Christ, you feel—”

He presses me into the bed, going deeper, fucking me faster—pushing the breath from my lungs with every thrust.

“I’m gonna come.” His voice is a mirror of mine—urgent and clinging. “I’m gonna come so hard.”

It’s his words that get me there—those words.

A keening sound comes from the hollow of my throat, and I clasp at his back, wrapping my legs around his waist. It feels like a whirlwind is building inside me, swirling and stretching. So close, so close…

And he feels it too—I know it in the way his thrusts go wild, in how he rocks forward and forward, pushing like he can’t get close enough, pressing in so deep I feel the liquid heat of him in my womb.

Golden stars burst behind my eyelids as perfect white-hot pleasure tears through my body and pulses in my veins. Dean drives into me one last time, groaning my name into my hair.

I come back to languid awareness with the feel of him nibbling on my lips. A minute later, I open my eyes to see that sexy, dirty-boy smile aimed down at me.

“I’ll be right back.” He pecks my nose. “Don’t fall asleep.”

I wiggle a little underneath him.

“After that, I think we’ve earned it.”

r /> “No.” He braces up on his elbows, looking down at where we’re still connected.

His hips slide forward in a shallow jab of a thrust.

And he gets hard.

Again.

Inside me.

“We’ll sleep when we can’t move. Right now, we’re just getting started.”

And it’s official—in a past life, I must’ve been a very, very good girl.

~ ~ ~

My eyes creak open the next morning, only about a half hour after Dean let me close them. And I want the sleep—I need the sleep—I’ve earned all the sleep.

But my internal clock is an asshole, so once I’m up—I’m up.

I untwist myself from the cream sheet and slip out of bed, leaving the sleeping hunk of warm sex machine behind me. I scurry around the apartment on a mini scavenger hunt for my clothes, and then I head for the bathroom. In the trashcan beside the sink, I notice the used condoms—a whole box’s worth of used condoms—and I grin like the filthy girl I never knew I was, remembering how each one ended up getting gloriously used.

I guess if you’re only going to have sex every five years or so, this is the way to do it. Like a camel—fill the hump.

The reflection of the woman who stares back at me from the mirror is wonderfully wrecked—tousled hair from strong, gripping hands, smudged makeup, swollen lips, flushed cheeks . . . shining happy eyes. There’s a dark red hickey on my right shoulder—and I remember how that got there too. With my back to Dean’s chest, his hand covering my breast, and his mouth latched on to that spot as he came deep inside me.

After cleaning up my face and using my finger and Dean’s toothpaste to scrub away the morning breath, I step out of the bathroom. He lays on his back, one arm bent over his head, the other resting on his stomach, his spent cock—still impressive in its sleepy state—resting against his thigh.

And there’s a pull—that magnetic connection—that nudges me to crawl my ass right back in that bed with him.

But I fight it. Because I don’t know how these morning afters are supposed to work—but I know it always feels better to leave before being left. To get out when the getting’s still good—to not overstay your welcome.