By the looks of it, Clarke had been living under a microscope even longer than I had.
I shouldn’t have pushed her like that, shouldn’t have teased her. Maybe if I had I known more about her past . . .
Who was I kidding? I still would’ve gone for it, greedy bastard that I was.
I snaked a hand under the band of my briefs and palmed my throbbing cock, cursing under my breath. The calluses on my palms didn’t stop me from imagining a smoother set of hands wrapped around me, fisting my cock up and down. Squeezing me tightly, to the point where pleasure met pain.
Fuck.
I hadn’t jerked off more than once a day since I was a horny teenager. Not until I met Clarke. It was easy, too easy, to close my eyes and succumb to the scene I’d concocted weeks ago. There had been many Clarke fantasies as of late, but this was by far my favorite—satisfaction guaranteed, fast and efficient release.
I pictured her on her knees—in the locker room, in the shower, wherever—one hand stroking my cock while the other fingered her clit. I’d tell her to tease herself, but not enough to make herself come. No, the first time she came, it would be with my tongue buried in her pussy and my name on her lips.
Her eyes would peer up at me. For approval, maybe. Or instruction. And as I promised her tonight, I’d be happy to give her either.
I’d be happy to give her everything.
That was a dangerous thought.
My abs contracted as I pumped my hand faster, dragging a pearl of precum down my shaft.
I imagined her bare, her perfect, heavy breasts pushed together by the press of her arms. They’d bounce wildly with each pump of my cock, each ragged exhale of breath as she rode her own hand. Would she let me fuck those, too? I could die a happy man if Clarke Myers let me fuck her tits.
That was for another day. For now, her hands would do.
And her mouth.
My balls pulled tight when I envisioned my hands winding through the soft strands of her hair, tugging her head back tight enough to make her gasp, but not rough. Because Clarke deserved nothing short of worship. Her eyes would darken when I’d tell her to put me in her mouth, then water as she worked herself up and down my cock until it nudged the back of her throat. Fuck, just the thought of her throat constricting around my cock had me practically seeing stars.
I fucked my hand mercilessly, wishing it were her mouth, her pussy.Her pert, rounded ass.Each thought pushed me closer to release.
What would she do, I wondered, if I pulled her to her feet and painted her lips with her own pussy juices before licking them clean? How about if I bent her over and fucked her from behind, one hand wrapped around her throat, the other strumming her clit like Prince’s guitar?
I wanted to claim her.
To mark her.
To make sure she felt me between her thighs long after we said goodbye. And goodbye was inevitable.
But not before I made her mine.
Blistering heat pooled at the base of my spine just before my release erupted across my stomach and chest.
Sometime later, after I caught my breath and washed the cum off myself, a staggering thought crossed my mind. For the first time, it wasn’t the vision of Clarke on her knees, taking my cock that had made me come. It wasn’t the memory of our kiss nor the laundry list of fantasies I’d scripted for us. No, it was something else entirely, something new . . .
It was the idea of making her mine.
Clarke
“What do you want, Clarke?”
Soren’s words had played on repeat in my mind for the last forty-eight hours. The question itself was simple enough. Five words, five syllables. Something even a child could understand and, dare I say, answer as well.
But not me. No, not this fully-grown woman.
I could detail the full history of the house of Versace and list the name, age, and marital status of every hotel mogul in the country, but I was still struggling to answer Soren’s question. The same question that Trixie had asked just last month at Waffle House.
I’d had an entire month to think it over and still nothing.
