Then she leans in and presses her mouth to my stomach, trailing kisses across it. I shift in the chair, watching my own chest rise and fall with each shallow breath I take.
“How long do you plan on torturing me?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “Because I’m not a patient man, Jessica.”
She smiles then shifts her hand, wrapping her fingers around the base of my cock. She gives me one slow stroke, testing.
“Oh, fuck,” I breathe, my head tipping back against the headrest.
“Who knew you could be so obedient,” she says.
My eyes snap back down to her.
She’s glowing. On her knees, back arched just enough, the curve of her ass framed by her bikini, with one hand wrapped around my cock.
Then she leans forward and drags her pink tongue across the flushed tip of my dick, gathering the leaking precum.
My hips thrust up on instinct, my teeth grinding down.
“You taste so good, Captain,” she murmurs, lips ghosting over the tip.
Her hand stays firm at the base, keeping my hips down, and then she does it again.
A ragged groan slips out of me but she doesn’t give me any time. She parts her lips and takes me in. Just a few inches, but it’s enough that my vision fuzzes at the edges and my lungs can’t pull air.
“Fucking Christ,” I bite out through gritted teeth.
Her mouth is hot and wet. Her lips glide down slowly, cheeks hollowing as she draws me in like she’s starving.
And her eyes stay locked on mine the whole time.
I can’t do this. I can’t fucking handle this.
“Jessica,” I choke, every muscle in my body pulled so tight I might snap.
She hums around me, vibrations traveling through my dick. And I almost lose it. My hands twitch toward her but don’t dare interrupt. The sting of sweat prickling my spine.
And then, with one last swirl of her tongue that makes me groan, she lets me go and leans back on her heels, licking the corner of her mouth.
She looks completely power-drunk.
She taps the side of my thigh. “Still breathing?”
Fucking barely.
“Get up,” I grit.
“Oh?” She raises a brow. “Too much for you?”
“Get the fuck up, Jessica.” Her name sounds like gravel when I say it.
When I stand, it’s on shaking legs. When I lift her off the ground, it’s with my hands full of her ass and my mouth crashing into hers.
Playtime’s over.
Now it’s my turn.
By the time we make it downstairs, the sun’s lower and Jessica has that just-been-fucked flush in her cheeks. I don’t think anyone else clocks it, probably thinking it’s sunburn.
The table itself is ridiculous—three identical outdoor tables shoved together to make one long monster that can fit the whole roster. I had to buy two more this week. Chairs are crammed side by side, there are plates everywhere, and condensation runs downglasses.
