When his hand disappears from view again, the last thing I expect is for him to separate my labia, to stretch me open. “Give me your hands,” he orders.
I do it. Of course I do. Anything he wants in this moment is his.
He places my hands at my crotch, makes me hold myself open, as if it’s beneath him, somehow, and oh my god, I’ll do it if it pleases him. I’ll splay myself and flay myself and lay myself at his feet.
I’m not ready for him to sink to his knees, bend his head and cover my entire pussy with his mouth. I’m not ready for his tongue on my clit and then his teeth and then, like the violent flick of a whip, his hand spanking me there.
I’m not ready to fly, fly, fly above him and us and the camp and everything I ever thought mattered in this world.
But I do. And it’s fucking beautiful.
16
Zion
So much of my life’s been about control. Keeping it. Never letting it go.
Liev’s a man whose entire sex life revolves around losing control and letting his inner animal take over.
Not me. I’m the man holding the reins. I’m the man who decides. I pick and choose and stay level-headed throughout everything that comes at me.
When Twyla’s eyes roll back into her head, her sweet little pussy clenched around my finger, her lush, round body limp in my arms, something happens.
I don’t lose it, so much as I make new choices. Choices I’d normally take the time to think through first, to figure out, to ensure mesh with my lifestyle, long and short term. Choices I know for a fact will have no bearing on anything I do—at camp or away.
But when my wife’s orgasm gives its final gasp and she looks at me in that satisfied, bedroom way I’d never once thought to see on her face, my brain goes off-line or something. Hell, maybe it melts. Maybe it’s her smile that shuts me down and fucks with my head. Or maybe it’s the way she slowly leans in, wraps her arms around me, and sighs, the sound the happiest thing I’ve ever heard, right against my cheek. “Zion,” she whispers, her lips a hot caress on my jaw, my neck, up, up, over my chin, toward my mouth—
“Stop.” The word’s harsh, shocking in the hot, sweet, lazy aftermath.
“You safe wording me?” Twyla whispers as she brings her nose in line with mine, our lips not quite touching. Not quite, but almost, so close I feel the heat of them, the brush, the almost-friction of moving air. “You saying Red? Yellow to slow down?”
I shut my eyes and don’t move an inch.
“I know, I heard,” she singsongs in that low, lulling voice. “Zion Mason doesn’t kiss.” Her nose slides along mine, our masks catch, fabric to fabric, as she eases over, to the other side, the move slow and sensual and intimate enough to hurt. “Oh, I meanZed. Sorry. No kissing for Zed. And I respect that. We all have our limits, right?” Another unhurried slide of skin, another near-miss between our mouths. Her breathing’s as shaky as mine. “I won’t kiss you, Zed. At least not…” She taps a finger to my lips. “Here.”
She tilts her head and trails her mouth to the side of mine, down, under, and back up the other side. It’s such a long, leisurely path, I almost don’t notice she’s just traced the outline of my lips with hers. We’re a hair’s breadth from it happening; so close, I could turn my head and just let that part of us fuse, the way we did on that red carpet all those weeks ago, when I told myself it was the right thing to do. Not a role, but a duty. And, if it felt good, then so be it, it wasn’t real, it was for the cameras.
“Can I kiss you down there?” Her whisper’s so low I can barely hear it. “Can I suck you?”
The words jolt me out of it. My eyes snap open. I catch her watching me, her expression still soft enough that I wonder if I heard right. Is this disappointment? No. I huff out something like disbelief. No fucking way.
“Let me suck you, Z.”
Definitely heard right. And my dick’s on board, even if the rest of me’s caught in a different spell.
“That what you want, baby?”
She nods, the teeth digging into her lower lip a siren’s call to my balls. Before I know what I’m doing, I stand and pull myself out of my shorts, giving my cock a few rough strokes, though it’s more for show than necessity. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this hard.
“Look,” I tell her, as she drops to her knees, the robe getting in the way, her breasts loose and heavy and covered in my bites, her body on display. “Look at what you do to me, you little brat, with those tits and that pussy.” With my thumb, I gather the pre-come beading at my head and slide it over that plump lip, releasing it from her teeth. “And this mouth.” I push my thumb between her lips, hook her bottom teeth and pull down. “This fucking mouth, telling those people you wanted a spanking, giving permission to do whatever.” I pull my thumb out and suck it. “Limits?”
“Nope,” she says, all provocative defiance.
“It’s hard to concentrate with these out here, displayed for the world.” I bend slightly and pinch a nipple, hard, then tug until her tit stretches toward me. The image is pure filth and when she arches back, either easing the pain or giving me more, it’s fucking beautiful. “And this goddamn face. I hate that you cover it here, hate that they can’t see how fucking gorgeous you are.”
“So take it off,” she taunts.
I want to so bad that my fingers grab the bottom edge of the leather and lace thing she’s wearing. I pause. “You brat. You trying to push me?”
