Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

I press my face against the inside of her thigh. She jumps, still nervous about this.

“No one ever tasted you, did they?”

She already said she hadn’t given a blowjob, but it doesn’t mean for sure that no one did this. Her dark gaze holds mine while she shakes her head.

I’m the first. The only, some primal part of my brain demands. I spread her with my fingers, watching her open for me, petal by petal. She would have let me lick her pussy regardless of the alcohol. But she might not have done it in a room lit by lamps and fire. For that I have to thank, ironically, Zoey. I only let her plan this fucking dinner party because I was curious. Curious to see what Jane would make of my old friends. Curious to see what they’d make of her.

Turns out they want to fuck her. Funny, that it should bother me so much.

I give one long lick from base to top. It’s the warmup, but it’s so intimate, so delicious, that I groan. How am I going to last through this? My comfort doesn’t matter. My aching leg. My throbbing cock. None of it has anything to do with my tongue against her clit.

She sucks in a breath, her body rocking gently with desire.

I pull her hips to the edge of the couch so that I can lick her deep. I slide my tongue into her pussy and bite down gently on her outer flesh. She lets out a small keening sound. Then I push a finger inside—God, she’s tight. So swollen with arousal. I have to force my way in. I lick my way to her clit and then flutter my tongue over the sensitive bud.

It makes her ass come off the couch. She rocks against my face in urgent abandon. “Please, please, please.”

The way she begs makes me want to give her everything. I hold back. I could suck her clit and reach her G-spot and make her come right away. That would shortchange her. It wouldn’t make her forget everything, so instead I continue a soft flutter. I spell out words with my tongue. Beautiful, I tell her. Perfect. Mine. I write across her clit with soft swipes that make her thighs quiver. Her hands come to my hair, and she yanks. She yanks hard enough that it distracts me from my leg, and I grunt in satisfaction.

My arms wrap underneath her thighs, holding her in place so I can fuck her with my mouth. I give her long licks again, letting her cool down for a minute, letting the urgency drop for just a second so I can build her back up. She cries in protest. “Beau.”

“Now I’m Beau again, huh?”

“Yes.” She hisses the word while pumping her hips toward me.

I’m messy with her. My lips are wet from her lust. I lick them and then go back for more. Her breathing fills the room, a counterpoint to the crackle and pop of the fire.

“Let me come. Please.”

“Not yet.”

“Oh God, it hurts. It hurts not to come.”

Maybe I’m drawing it out to punish her. Or maybe I just need her to feel as good as she’d have felt with Lucas and Oliver. Better than that. She could have gone with them and had a night to remember. They are famous in LA—and Prague, and Tokyo, and London—for their exploits. They could have taught her things, but I want her here—quivering under my lips.

That’s the kind of experience she can have later. The kind she will have later, when she leaves me. Because inevitably she’ll leave. I’ll be here, covered in sea spray, drenched in rain, freezing to death on the cliffs of Maine. Later, later. Right now she’s here. With me. I show my gratitude by pushing two fingers inside this time. I reach deep, finding the spot that makes her jolt. And then I rub it again. And again. She’s moaning now, seconds from coming. It’s getting harder to stop her. Harder to draw this out.

She’s on a razor’s edge, vibrating with how close she is. God, she’s magnificent. Her breasts shake. Her thighs tense. Her hand fists in my hair, demanding that I worship her.

I press the flat of my tongue against her clit at the same time as I twist my fingers inside her. She comes with a sharp cry, her whole body writhing. Darkness and chaos. Water in my lungs. I breathe the salt and musk of her deep, wanting to remember this for a cold future night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Jane Mendoza

The doorbell rings at noon.

I open it without checking the peephole. I’m hoping it’s the event company come to pick up their china and silverware and sashes. Zoey is the one who made the order, and without information from her, I have no idea how to return them.