Knox’s lips are on the mantle of my collarbone—dotting a constellation of kisses where everyone can see—and my head falls back in bliss while the wet smack of his mouth resounds off my bedroom walls. He paints shapes with his tongue, grips the sides of my body with the desperation of a dying star, and my whole mental power grid threatens to go dark.
I don’t even register the next question I ask him, but it’s the first one he gets wrong. Though, in his defense, he is a bit preoccupied.
He leaves something of a forensic trail up my throat, biting at my jaw, and grinning when my body convulses from the stacking of pressure. Thinking about anything other than Knox tearing my underwear off with his teeth is the equivalent of trying to catch smoke.
My words are fulsome as they reinforce his impenetrableego, hanging in the air like a guillotine waiting to come down. “God, you’re killing me,” I whimper.
He cradles my back—this man-monster servicing the dainty damsel he’s stolen away from her manse—all rough edges that shouldn’t be compatible with soft corners. “I love it when you call me that.”
“Call you what?”
“God. Am I your god, Ace?”
I don’t know if it’s rhetorical or not, but I nod anyways.
His fingernails claw into my shoulders like he’s afraid to let me go, and no part of me wants him to. He nuzzles his face into my boobs, moves the cup to the side to tease my nipple. Even though he’s still fully dressed, I can see the way his muscles ripple under the thin cotton of his shirt—all sheer strength in a physique built like an ox.
“Yeah? Then let me show you how a true god worships.”
With the finesse of a pro, he suckles and squeezes, and my vision is a panorama of vibrant colors, my thoughts scattershot with some assembly required. As my spine arches, my fingers entangle themselves in his hair, pulling so hard that I worry I’ll rip a decent chunk out. The urgency is getting to me—similar to a creature sacrificing its own limb to escape from a demise worse than the smell of pungent metal and arterial damage. My skirt comes off without the pretense of a question.
Knox slithers his hand between the junction of my thighs, brushing over the gusset of my panties that have become soaked in the last ten minutes, a growl razoring through his throat. “I should’ve taken care of this, baby. I’m so sorry.”
That pet name willalwaysdo it for me.
As much as I’d love for him to attend to every one of my body’s selfish desires, I can’t look past the fact that he’s in a similar—if not worse—state as me, his dick occasionally twitching against the inseam. There’s already a spot of pre-cum that’s seeped through the material, and I know from, um,pastexperience, that a perfectly good pair of pants might be in jeopardy.
“I’m the one who should be sorry, Knox. I think it’s my turn to take care of you,” I coo, gesturing to his distended cock.
Have I ever sucked a dick before? No, no I have not. Would I be willing to venture into the deep, dark depths of quite possibly the world’s grossest male organ? Yes, unfortunately I would. I’d do a lot for Knox, I’ve come to realize.
“Are you sure?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow, his lips crisped into a grimace like he’s sure I’m going to regret my offer.
“Do you not want me to?” I pout.
“That’s not what I said. I just don’t want you to feel like youhaveto do anything.”
I have no idea what comes over me next, but I operate on pure impulse, revisiting the little box labeledLACK OF EXPERIENCEthat’s been tucked away for the greater good of my teen years. While hesitation usually comes with the territory, my desire to pleasure a man (crazy, I know) upstages the way my heart jolts against the aperture of my ribs.
Tone silken with eroticism, I begin to trail my finger up the length of his thigh, my mouth already watering at the prospect of taking Knox’s heat-seeking missile to the back of my throat.
“Trust me, I want to make you feel good. You’ll let me make you feel good, won’t you?”
He adjusts his hips as his fingers flex like a big cat kneading the air. The underside of his neck is stretched taut, his jaw is clenched with unspent energy, and his eyelids flutter shut to combat the chafe of denim on sweaty skin.
“Oh, fuck.Yes, baby. I’ll do anything to have your mouth on me.”
With a swallow, I slowly unzip his pants. The nerves are crippling. Knox barely fit inside my pussy; if I expect him to fit snugly inside my mouth, I’m delusional. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t throw up on him.
“I’ve—I’ve never done this before. You’ll tell me if I do something you don’t like, right?”
He leverages a look at me, all power and intimidation distilled into this six-foot-three mammoth of a man. Euphoria already looms over his expression, wrinkles pleating the corners of his drunken eyes.
“Ace, in no world is that fucking possible,” he rumbles, helping me out by pulling down both his jeans and boxers, freeing his cock from its high-security prison. Unstinting. His shirt is next to go.
After his dick whacks against his stomach, it bows from its heavy weight, the mushroomed head glossed in a pearlescent ring of pre-cum that’s probably been proliferating ever since my amateur striptease.
And, of course, with my brain smoking like an overused engine, I forgot all about the metal barbells that will no doubt hinder my ability to swallow him down. His length is thick, red from neglect, emphasizing the network of stark veins that bulge from spades of tension.
