I tug on the waistband of his basketball shorts. “Give me that big dick so I can.”
With a groan that seems to rumble all the way up his chest, he pushes down his shorts, frees his cock, and wraps a fist around the base, offering his cock to me like a gift I ought to be grateful for.
I am. I’m so grateful my panties are wet.
Nope. Make thatwetter. Just like his dick, with a drop of liquid arousal beading at the tip. Leaning in, I dart out the tip of my tongue, flick it across it, then moan, murmuring, “More.”
Giving a small pump of his hips, he thrusts a little deeper, offering me another inch. Grabbing his hips, I wrap my lips around his shaft. I draw him in, sucking on the crown, then more, then as much as I can. Soon I’m lavishing attention up and down him with my tongue. I’m making a mess of his cock, licking him sloppily, wrapping my hand around him and drawing him deeper. So deep that I bat his hand away from the base. He’s mine right now, and I want all of him.
“Fuck, baby. You look so fucking beautiful like this. So fucking perfect on your knees.”
My pulse beats hot and fast between my thighs.
He grips my head harder. Ropes his fingers in my hair that’s getting messier. “This scrunchie is so fucking helpful,” he mutters.
With my fingers digging into his skin, I urge him to pump his hips. He obeys, and I relax my throat as best I can. Somehow, I drag him in deeper, caressing his cock with my mouth, letting him hit the back of my throat.
I gag. Coughing. Letting him drop from my mouth.
“You okay? Want me to stop?”
I grab his hips harder, digging my nails into his flesh. “You’d better apologize for saying that.”
He runs a big hand over my hair. “Yeah? How do you want me to say sorry?”
“By filling my throat with your come,” I tell him.
The sound that rips from his chest is animalistic. I draw his wet cock back into my mouth, inhaling him, it seems. He fills my mouth, so there’s hardly room for me to breathe, but I don’t care.
He’s groaning, grunting, thrusting. And swearing so damn much.
So fucking beautiful.
Yes, fuck yes, do that.
I can’t fucking take it.
But I can. I can take it all, and he gives it all in one deep thrust as he jerks, shudders, and comes down my throat. I swallow it all, savoring the taste of my business partner and pickleball coach out here on the court.
When he eases out, he’s panting, and moaning still. But he must blink off the haze quickly, since he says, “What a mess I’ve made of your pretty hair. Let me fix it.”
33
THE RIGHT AMOUNT OF YOU
CORBIN
“I messed up your hair,” I say as I tug her up from the court, then grab my T-shirt from beneath her knees.
“I’m sensing a theme,” she remarks, smoothing her skirt.
“And that is?” I tug my T-shirt back on.
“One: you like to strip in front of me. Two: you like to make a mess of me.”
Damn, that’s a little spot on. A little scary too, for a guy who’s a neat freak. “I do.”
“Or maybe you like it when I’m messy, so you can fix me,” she counters.
