“Too much. Please, it’s too much. I can’t.”
“You’re quitting?” I slid just enough challenge into my voice to call her back to herself.
“I don’t know how to...”
Her words trailed off as I stroked deep inside her, setting off aftershocks from her first climax.
“It’s okay. I do. Trust me?”
I looked up to meet her heavy-lidded gaze, and her answer came out part laughter, part cry, but she nodded.
“That’s my beautiful girl.” Under any other circumstance, I knew she wouldn’t let the girl comment go, but with my fingers working inside her to build her second climax and my tongue teasing her rigid clit, she barely seemed to notice. “You can let go, Charlotte.” I murmured against her damp sex, not sure whether I meant her orgasm or her hands on the headboard.
I didn’t have to decide. She let go of the bar she’d been gripping, threading her fingers through my hair instead, and then she guided my mouth exactly where she wanted me, grinding against my face, painting me with her arousal. It was one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen: Charlotte straining against me, driving her body on for another climax.
It took a matter of moments for her to go fromI can’tto writhing under my hands and mouth as the second orgasm tore through her. She cried out, her body jolting with the out-of-control tremors I loved. There was no porn star acting, just Charlotte’s body responding uncontrollably to my touch.
I fucking loved it. My cock was so hard it ached, but right now I wanted to hold her. To feel her body softened with pleasure and surrender melt against mine. The fact that she didn’t offer up any resistance when I stretched out beside her and pulled her into my arms, settling her silky hair across my chest, showed just how far gone she was.
Fitted against me, none of the resistance that held her separate remained. I ran myhand in long strokes over her back, not too hard or too light. Just enough to cement the connection between us. To make sure as her breathing slowed to normal and she slipped back into herself, she didn’t pull away. I still wanted to fuck her—I needed it—but I needed the connection more. If I was careful and very lucky, I’d get both.
“Let me,” she said, her fingertips tracing the line between the muscles of my abdomen to the trail of hair leading to my still hard cock. “You didn’t get much out of that.” She wrapped her hand around me, and I gripped her wrist, stopping her before I did something crazy like let her get me off without realizing the complete error of her words.
“You’re kidding, right? Having you come under my mouth and my hand was one of the most erotic things I’ve ever felt. Seriously, cher.”
I felt her tense against me. She thought I was feeding her a line. This woman was going to make me work for every damn inch. Every scrap of her trust. That was okay. I wasn’t afraid of a little hard work. What was that saying? Nothing worth having ever came easily. I already knew Charlotte was worth having, in whatever way she agreed to.
I tightened my grip on her, sliding my hand down her leg to her knee so I could pull her closer, opening her body to me. Stroking the back of her thigh, I ran my palm over her ass and let my fingertips skim her slick sex. She let out a sigh that bordered on a whimper and arched into my touch. Any coaxing I’d had to do to get her to open up to me was long past. She bloomed under my touch. Eager in a way that was the most powerful aphrodisiac I’d known.
I was telling Charlotte the truth. I’d made her promise me honesty, but I knew, regardless, I’d give it to her. I fucking loved making her come. Feeling her body clench around my fingers, imagining what it would feel like to sink into her wet heat, to have her climax trigger my own had my cock so hard it ached. But I also knew once I came, there wouldn’t be a reason for Charlotte to let me stay. Her sense of fairness wouldn’t let her kick me out without getting me off first, but after my orgasm, all bets were off. I wasn’t about to count on her wanting to do something as mundane and delicious as cuddle. I needed to have the promise of our next time in place before I crossed that line and gave in to my own climax.
And I knew without a doubt that, given a brief rest, I could get her to come for me again. What I needed was a way to keep her engaged that didn’t give her too much time to worry things around in that big beautiful brain of hers.
“I’m starving,” I said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Point me to your kitchen and I’ll make us something to eat.”
THE MAN HAD DOUBLED DOWN on the orgasms and now he was in my kitchen, preparing food. I didn’t know how to feel about any of this. I didn’t know if he’d actually find anything he could cook. I had a grocery service deliver staples every week, but cooking wasn’t something that really happened in my kitchen. Was I supposed to offer to help? I could have told him not to bother, but he seemed determined and after all the orgasms, I was kind of hungry. And in no condition to argue. The man turned me into a fucking puddle. Literally and figuratively. I loved oral sex. If you’d asked me before I met Ford, I’d have said it was my favorite thing. It still was, but the man took it to a new level. I’d climaxed so hard the second time, funky things happened to my vision. I’d read about that but I’d always assumed it was the author’s artistic license and not a real, honest-to-goodness thing. Ford proved me wrong and left me a melted, softened shell of my former self.
I could have kissed him good-bye and ordered in, but the only place that delivered this time of night was hit or miss at the best times. If I was being honest with myself—which I promised I would be—I wanted a chance to give him back some of the pleasure he’d given me. Standard one-night stand protocol usually meant both parties looked after their own orgasms. If you were decent people, which should be the minimal requirement, each participant put in enough effort to make sure the other person got there, but that didn’t usually involve chasing the other person to get them off. Especially when that other person was the dude.
In my experience, even relatively attentive lovers were a little too lackadaisical in the orgasm department. The worst ones didn’t pay attention beyond the occasional glancing clit touch or halfhearted attempt at oral before they flipped things to the hand on top of your head, get on down there insistent push. They were the same ones who had the nerve to get offended if you took matters into your own hands. Never mind thattheirorgasms were guaranteed.
Ford didn’t fit either category, at least not that I’d seen yet. It made me curious, which made me want to figure things out. Which meant I wasn’t done with him. Not until I had a chance to reciprocate on the orgasm count. Maybe not even then, but I wasn’t willing to think that far ahead. First I needed to wrap my head around the idea of there being a man in my kitchen. Cooking.
I couldn’t just lay there and wait in my post-orgasmic bliss like he’d told me to.Point me to your kitchen,he said.I’ll make us something to eat. No, cher, don’t get up. I’m not done with you yet. That last bit somehow managed to wake up my blissed-out clitoris, proving Ford might know more than I did about how many times I could come. Not that I had any intention of sharing that information.
Thelet me cookthing might have been some kind of elaborate escape plan. Except the man hadn’t had an orgasm, and he was pretty much guaranteed one if he stayed for another ten minutes. Five, if he issued a challenge. If there was one thing I excelled at, it was exceeding expectations. I wasn’t about to change simply because he’d decided to stretch things out.
I pulled on a robe, giving a longing glance at my heels lying beside the bed. The orgasm imbalance and implied disparity of power already made me feel vulnerable. Padding out to my kitchen barefoot would make it worse. But strutting out in my robe and heels felt too hookerish for comfort. Not that there was anything wrong with a woman doing whatever the hell she wanted with her body. It just didn’t happen to be my thing. I weighed my options for a moment and decided I’d hate being barefoot less.
That was an unexpected one-night stand twist: picking the thing that I hated less. Or maybe it wasn’t unexpected at all. This way was just up front and more honest.
Shoving the thought aside to look at later—or never; I was becoming a pro at that—I made my way down the hall to the kitchen, my curiosity growing with each step. I’d watched the care Ford took when he mixed my cocktail, the attention he paid to every ingredient. But that was when he had everything prepped for him. God only knows what he’d found to work with in my Spartan pantry. The only thing I was sure I had was grapefruit seltzer, ajar of peanut butter, and, if I was very lucky, bread not too far past its sell-by date.
I stood in the doorway to the room I mostly used to make coffee and watched as Ford moved from stove to refrigerator and back again with ease. He hummed what I was pretty sure was “Not While I’m Around” fromSweeny Todd, and I added show tune lover to the list of unexpected things about Ford. His black boxer briefs hugged his perfect ass. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt and the muscles of his back were clearly defined, probably from hauling bar stuff. I wanted to trace them with my tongue. Scratch the wanting; I was going to trace them with my tongue and then I was going to bite his ass, work my way around to the front of him and wrap my lips around the rock-hard cock I’d felt straining against me earlier. I leaned against the doorjamb for support as I compiled a mental to-do list. I’d just added trail my hair over his abs and cock when Ford glanced over his shoulder at me as if my filthy thoughts called to him.
“I told you to stay in bed. Conserve your strength.”
His cocky grin softened the impact of his words but there was that edge of command again. The one that made me want to listen and obey. What the fuck was that about?
