I’ve had a few boyfriends through the years. Nothing serious, but enough to know I love giving head.
The other way around has never been as satisfying. Till now.
This is what it’s like when a man knows what he’s doing. And like someone in complete control, Dex gives pleasure while withholding what my body craves the most.
Release.
“God, you feel so good, Dex.” I can barely speak as lust strangles me. “I need more. Please. I’m so close.”
“What are you gonna do the next time I tell you to lie down and open your legs for me, wife?”
I gasp and look down between my thighs.
His mouth and beard glisten with moisture, his expression possessive. We stare at each other while he resumes the deep French kissing of my folds. It’s so freaking hot, my hips buck of their own will, chasing pressure. Dex’s hands keep me in place while his mouth and tongue penetrate deeper and rougher.
“Hmm?” he asks with a deep baritone that vibrates through my sensitive walls.
“I’ll lie d-down. When, um, when y-you tell me to,” I manage with stops and starts.
He buries his face with a satisfied huff, his tongue penetrating my channel before pulling back to graze my clit. My body scrunches up in response. Dex grips my ass firmly and bites the inside of my thighs, prompting them to widen.
“And when I tell you to open your legs?” His beard titillates my inner thighs and his nose nudges my throbbing center.
“I’ll open my legs,” I mumble obediently, teetering at the brink of an orgasm and desperate for him to push me over.
“That’s right, Sabrina. You open your legs when I tell you to. Like a very good wife.”
He doesn’t wait for a response to those shocking words. I’ve never been talked to this way and yet, somehow, it is exactly what I need to hear. As if his words flipped a switch, my body yields and my brain empties out. I am nothing but an instrument of his pleasure.
A very good wife.
I have no intention of analyzing why those words are so sexy. My brain is no longer working, after all.
Dex returns his attention to my wet folds, lapping his tongue and moving his lips with perfect friction.
Mercifully, his long fingers press into my channel, churning my arousal and stroking my walls. He plunges deep just as he wraps his hot lips around my clit and sucks hard.
My climax whips through me like a live current, releasing jolts of electricity in forceful surges. The sensation arches my back and blanks my mind. I’m writhing and bucking through the climax.
When I come down from the high of an unbelievable orgasm and refocus on my surroundings, I’m treated to the wolfish grin of a devastatingly gorgeous man. I’ve known him for most of my life, yet never allowed myself to admit the truth: Dexter Whitby is the sexiest man alive.
“You’re looking very pleased with yourself,” I say, unable to hold back my own smile.
“Me? You’re not seeing what I’m seeing.”
I chuckle. No doubt I’m a portrait of sexual satisfaction.
“So, that’s, um, wow, it was . . .” I stop because my brain is malfunctioning.
Words. I need words. Instead, my mouth stays open like a gaping fish.
“Take your time. We got all night,” he says.
But then what? What happens after tonight?
Anything? Nothing?
It strikes me that nothing is the safest yet most terrifying answer of all.
