He nods, offering a wry smile. “Yeah, except with you it’s cum. Andas far as fetishes go this one’s pretty easy to accommodate so I appreciate that.”
A cum fetish…well that sure as hell explains a lot. I have no idea why it’s rearing its head now when I’ve been coming foralmost thirty years but I guess the same could be said about a lot of shit lately.
“Is that why I loved sucking your dick?” I ask curiously. “Because I was trying to make you come?”
“You did make me come,” he points out. “But no. The fetish is about the cum itself, not the act that leads to. Why? Are you freaking out about the blowjob?”
I shrug. “Not particularly. I’m just a little curious about why I liked it so much. I mean, it makes sense that I would like you fucking my throat but I really loved the part before that as well,” I admit. “You weren’t really dominating me and it didn’t feel degrading. I just really loved being on my knees sucking on a dick…”
Jazz’s eyes glimmer with amusement and his mouth curves into a teasing smirk. “You loved it for the same reason you loved posing like aPlayboycenterfold just before—it made you feel like a dirty slut. And youlovebeing slutty—don’t you, dirty boy?”
I draw in a sharp breath and let my eyes fall closed as warmth touches my cheeks. Fuck, he’s right. That’s exactly how I felt earlier, and I loved it. I loved being on my knees, moaning around the hard dick in my mouth. I felt so fucking slutty; it was exhilarating.
“Yeah. Lovebeing a slut.” My eyes fall to his hard-on again and I’m about to reach out and demonstrate just how slutty I can be when Jazz decides to fasten his jeans.
“I think it might be time for you to get dressed, dirty boy.”
13
It feelslike my head has barely touched the pillow before I’m dragged out of sleep by the blaring of my phone. I reach out blindly to snatch it from my nightstand, cracking my eyes open just enough to identify the caller.
With a groan of frustration I fall back on my pillow and answer the call. “What the fuck do you want?”
Jazz lets out a soft chuckle. “It’s a relief to know there have been no lasting effects.”
“Did you seriously wake me up at the crack of dawn just to test that you can still piss me off?” I grumble.
He lets out a soft huff. “The crack of dawn? Dirty boy, it’s almost ten.”
“Huh?” I crack my eyes open again, this time noticing the pale threads of wintry sunlight peeking through the edges of the window blinds. Checking my phone, I see it is indeed nine fifty-two am. “How is it ten to ten?”
“Are you asking me to explain the concept of time?” Jazz drawls.
I roll my eyes. “It was a rhetorical question. You could explain why you’re calling, though.”
“Well, I figured there was a possibility you’d still be in bed after last night’s adventures and I didn’t want you to miss out on the treat I’m sending you.”
I sit up, my curiosity piqued. “What kind of treat?”
“It’s a surprise,” Jazz says coyly. “To commemorate the fun we had last night. But don’t worry, you won’t have to wait too long—it’s on its way now.”
“Huh? On its way where?”
“To your house, of course.”
I bolt upright, alarm racing through me as I envision the apocalyptic scenario of a male strippergram bursting through Blake’s front door and grinding all over me in front of my brother, my brother-in-law, and my two kids to the tune of “Lick It” by 20 Fingers. “How do you even know where I live?” I demand, tossing my phone aside as I jump from the bed and hastily tug on briefs and a pair of sweats.
“I’m your employer. I know all your personal information. I’m looking at your social security number right now.”
I pause in the motion of reaching for a t-shirt and then stride back to my bed, picking up my phone. “Are you deliberately making yourself sound as sinister as possible to mess with me or should I be worried about being chopped up into pieces and stored in your freezer?”
“That’s really your call,” he says, sounding completely unfazed. “If it helps, I like to meal prep so there’s not a whole lot of room in my freezer.”
“That’s a comfort,” I deadpan, setting the phone back down and returning to my closet to grab a t-shirt.
“Damn, bike messengers are fast these days,” Jazz comments.
I let out a breath of relief. Bike messenger. That means it’s a package of some kind. Whatever it is, I can just grab it and bring it straight up here; it’s not as though anyone’s going to force me to open it downstairs.
