“Thought you’d have a better word than that.”
She stroked hard, thumbing the crown of my cock. “I think ‘thick’ is the most appropriate word to describe you. Thick cock, thick thighs, thick?—”
“Careful, Doc.”
“Lips.”
That made me laugh. “Thick lips?”
She shrugged. “Not my best work.”
I loved her sense of humor, that dry way she had with her. It was understated and sneaky and laced with her intelligence. Such a turn on.
I was beginning to think I was completely fucked here.
My cock was close to her mouth, and I was waiting, wanting, dying for her to do something about it. Another stroke, a dart of her tongue over her lips, a close examination like I was one of her specimens.
Then she applied a gentle kiss to the head. Not a suck, not a lick, just the sweet pressure of her lips, and I started leaking like a battered watering can.
“Francesca,” I moaned.
Those cool blues flashed. She liked when I called her that. I liked when I called her that. Why weren’t we fucking all the time?
When she finally took me in her mouth, the answer came to me: if I had this woman in my bed as much as I wanted, I would never leave. No family visits, no hockey games, no finding out who inherited the company in Succession (I had just started the last season). This woman and her gorgeous, velvet mouth would be my constant, only obsession.
“I’m not going to last, Francesca,” I panted. But she didn’t stop, and I didn’t stop, and for the first time, I came inside her, not caring that it wouldn’t result in new life.
Because it had already resulted in so much more.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Franky
* * *
I woke up to the sound of music and the smell of bacon.
I gave a cat stretch and let my mind stray to last night. It was wonderful—or at least, a wonderful release. Maybe I could do this, occasionally sleep with Jason to scratch an itch. Help us both out.
The image of that cute blonde, the one from the Hot Goss website, popped into my head. So he claimed he’d had “chances” but he hadn’t indulged, whether out of guilt or honor or something else. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. He had kept himself for me.
After a visit to the bathroom, I went downstairs. Jason was dancing to Bruno Mars while waving a spatula. For a few lovely seconds, I watched as he twitched his hips and shook his ass, the very firm and muscular rear I’d had the pleasure of gripping hard last night.
“Hello.”
He whipped around. “Mornin’, Doc. You hungry?”
“I am a bit.” I moved forward and took a seat at the kitchen counter, which gave me the perfect view of the proceedings. This man cooking and dancing, happy as a clam. Anxious to avoid falling into his thirst trap, I refocused my attention on the backyard and the swing set surrounded by rust-colored leaves. A different kind of trap.
He handed me a cup of tea before returning to the stove. I took a sip. Earl Grey, perfectly steeped, the right amount of milk.
“You have tea in your cupboard?”
“I’ve got plenty of treats in my cupboard.”
“Seriously, you have the tea I like?”
“Not some strategy to lure you into my bed, Francesca.”
