Yes!
I’ve been praised for many skills in my life—the perfect soufflé, my knowledge of wine pairings, my knack for holiday decor.
But being praised for BJ skills sends a rush of pleasure through me that’s like nothing I’ve felt before. It’s exhilarating.
So are the throaty moans Dax is making, an audible sign of how good this feels to him. How good I’m making him feel.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “Lick the tip just like that. Suck that fat cock. God, you’re so fucking good.”
I grip the base of him, loving how much control it gives me. I lick him like a perfect scoop of cherry gelato and wait for my next command.
“Fuck,” he groans, which isn’t exactly a request. Or maybe it is.
“You like that?” I slip my hand between his legs, cupping him in my palm. “You like it when I touch you there?”
I can’t bring myself to say testicles or balls or whatever a real dirty talking woman might say, but I can see my words are getting to him anyway. Or maybe it’s what I’m doing with my fingers.
“Yeah,” he groans. “Use your nails just like that. Fuck.”
I suck him in deep again, drawing him back into my throat. His fingers tighten in my hair as I start to slide back, ready to do it again.
“Stop,” he groans.
I pull back, fighting a wave of disappointment. “Did I do something wrong?”
He shakes his head and gives a soft little laugh. “You’re doing everything right. That’s the problem. I’m not gonna last if you don’t stop.”
“Oh. Oh.” My face heats up, and I think about telling him not to stop. That I want to get him off like this.
But that’s not the only thing I want.
He grabs my hand and hefts me to my feet, reading my mind. “Take off your jeans,” he commands.
His words send a surge of lust through me, but also a twitch of nerves. I take a deep breath and peel off the jeans, shucking my shoes and panties, too. As I straighten up, I realize it’s the first time he’s seeing me naked. I fight the urge to cover myself. Part of me wants to put an arm across my muffin top. To press my palms against my breasts so he doesn’t notice they’re not very big.
But I do none of that. I square my shoulders and throw my ponytail over one shoulder, determined not to be that Lisa. The one who arranges her body at the most artistic angle like she’s posing for a boudoir selfie.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Dax shakes his head as he takes me in.
“What?” My voice sounds breathy and nervous.
Dax stares at my body, a muscle twitching beside his right eye. I’m not sure how to read his stony expression, but I try.
It’s the heat in his eyes that gives him away, then the slow blink like he’s clearing his vision. He rubs a hand over his jaw, the stubble making a scritch-scritch that shoots goosebumps up my arms.
“God, you’re beautiful.” His voice sounds thick and gravelly. “So fucking stunning.”
“Thanks.” It’s the sexiest I’ve ever felt.
“Jesus, look at you.” He takes a step forward, and turns me around so I’m facing the mirror. He’s right, I do look pretty good. Not perfect—not by any stretch of the imagination—but my whole body radiates desire like it’s been painted with candlelight.
I watch myself in the mirror as he skims a hand over my breasts, bringing me back to the present. I’m aching for him to bury himself inside me. I don’t even want the shower I came here for. I just need Dax. Now.
“Tell me what you want,” he demands, stroking my body like it belongs to him.
“I—” How do I say it?
“Do it,” he orders, gruffer this time. “I’ll give you whatever you need, baby. Count on it.”
