13. Sophie
13
SOPHIE
I ’m sure every heterosexual woman on the planet has a different idea of what constitutes the perfect penis, and I’m equally sure that all their perfect penis definitions are wrong. It’s just a fact, because unless they happen to have encountered Bram Vogel’s—a possibility thatpisses me off to an irrational degree—they have no idea what perfect is.
“Suck my cock, Sophie.”
The words go right through me, settling heavy and warm in my center. If anyone else were to take out their dick and say those words, I would probably flip them off and laugh in their face.
For Bram, I get on my knees.
If I’m honest with myself, all that exploring I was thinking about doing wasn’t interesting unless he was the one doing it with me. The boxes I checked, the fantasies I’ve had, it was always Bram. Despite my best efforts, I don’t want anyone else, and what’s really scary, is realizing I don’t think I ever will. After resigning myself to the fact that nothing could ever come of my feelings for him, I’m all but defenseless against Bram Vogel’s tireless campaign to keep me .
Also, I don’t want to resist, and I want all the reasons that I should to disappear.
He lets out a heavy breath as I kneel between his legs, reaching out to grasp the base of his shaft. He’s so thick my fingers barely meet, and the memory of what it felt like when he was inside me makes warmth spread through the muscles in my inner thighs.
Keeping my eyes on Bram’s, I lean forward and drag my tongue along the underside of his shaft. Taking my time, I leave wet, open-mouth kisses along his entire length, pausing only to swirl my tongue around his tip.
His gaze darkens as he watches me worship him, and when his hips lift—just slightly—off the couch, I’m the one who moans. It isn’t enough, though. I want to make him feel better than anyone has, to do things to him he thinks about forever. Until this point, he’s been blowing my mind. This is my chance to return the favor.
“Fuck.” Just one word, spat as though he was trying to hold it back but couldn’t help himself.
My pussy is sticky and throbbing as I grip him tighter, finally lowering my head until his thick tip bumps the back of my throat, making me gag. All this time, I’ve been watching Bram’s face, carefully cataloging his reactions to what I’m doing, filing it away for future reference. There’s no mistaking the flash of desire when I take more than I can handle.
So, I do it again, pushing myself past where I’m comfortable, until his cock is pressed right against the back of my throat. I gag and pull off him, panting as strings of saliva and pre-cum connect my lips to Bram’s dick.
God, I’m not sure I’ve ever been this turned on.
Diving back down, Bram’s voice rumbles above me. “Such a good girl, giving me this mouth whenever I want it.” His voice is low and throaty, and I bob my head up and down, gagging myself over and over again. “When we’re back at work, are you going to crawl under my desk and take care of my cock, sweetheart? I’ll draw the blinds. Nobody has to know what a filthy girl you are.”
Considering the number of times I’ve had that exact fantasy, I would say the answer to that question is: oh, hell yes.
The words he’s saying to me are dirty and wrong and perfect. I’ve imagined this so many times, and as it turns out, I was right. Nothing turns me on more than being Bram Vogel’s personal plaything.
He sucks in an unsteady breath, hips lifting off the couch as I use my saliva as lube, jerking the base of him. “Shit, that’s so fucking good, Sophie. Keep going.”
The veins in his forearms are standing out with the effort it’s taking him not to grab my hair and fuck my mouth, and I’ve never resented my head injury more than I do at this moment. Panting and moaning around his length, I do as he says, being as good as I can for him.
A low curse comes from above my head. “Damnit, I’m close. Keep it on your tongue, sweetheart. I want to see my cum in that smart mouth.”
His words are raspy and strained, proof of the effect I’m having on him, and wetness spills over the lips of my pussy as—finally—Bram takes my face in his hands and pulls me down with a groan. His shaft throbs, and I choke as the first rope of salty cum coats the back of my throat.
There’s a lot, and it’s a struggle to do as he says. It’s worth it, though, when Bram’s hands finally relax and he allows me to sit back, opening my mouth obediently.
“Fuck, Soph.” He gazes at me, chest still rising and falling heavily as he reaches out to gather a drip of cum that’s run onto my chin and drags it over my bottom lip. “Next time it’s going all over your tits.”
My answering giggle is choked as I swallow. “I’m pretty offended you think I would like something so depraved. Can we do it right now?”
“No, I had something else in mind.” He pats the place on the couch beside him, eyes glinting. “Take off your clothes and lie back for me.”
Zero convincing is required. So quickly that my head spins, I’m on my feet, shimmying out of the borrowed boxer briefs I’m wearing and tugging the T-shirt up. Bram’s couch probably cost more than my car, but he might have a point on this one, because it’s ridiculously comfortable. Scooting back, I let my head rest gingerly on a throw pillow, bare legs in his lap.
It feels deliciously wanton, being butt naked on Bram’s couch in the middle of the day. If this were any other time, I would be concerned about an unexpected visitor getting a free show through the front windows. Right now, however, with a thick carpet of snow covering the area where the driveway should be, and hours of uninterrupted time stretching before us…
He smirks, eyes bright and mischievous, and untidy hair sticking up in all directions. “We’re going to try something new.”
With no further explanation, he lifts my legs off his lap and gets up, moving toward the kitchen. I sit up to watch, and butterflies erupt in my belly at the sound of the freezer opening and closing. When he comes back around the counter, however, he doesn’t seem to have taken anything out of it.
“What were you doing?” I ask, biting my lip as he approaches the place where I’m spread out on the couch.
Bram merely hums, situating himself between my legs again and leaning down to kiss the sensitive skin just above my mound. “If it’s too much for you, tell me to stop.” His eyes meet mine, and my heart stalls at the wicked smile curving his lips. “Close your eyes. If I see them open, there will be consequences.”
There’s no part of me that wants to deny him, and I can barely breathe as I obey, allowing my eyelids to drop.
Another kiss, this time on the protruding arch of my pelvic bone, and I instantly understand why people sometimes blindfold their partners. I feel everything. Bram’s stubble chafing against my exposed skin, the warmth of my own breath, and—“Bram!”
My squeal of surprise makes him chuckle, and though I’m expecting it this time, the sensation of ice trailing over my inner thigh is still intense.
An ice cube. That’s what he got from the freezer. A freaking ice cube.
“Stay still,” Bram mutters, and I throw my arm over my eyes to prevent myself from inadvertently opening them. He’s barely touched me with it, and already I’m shaking, my breaths coming fast and uneven. Temperature play was a box I checked on the app, but somehow I envisioned hot wax dripping onto my skin, not ice cubes circling my nipples.
Not that I’m complaining. It’s torture, yes, but I also feel awake. My whole body is humming with restless, needy energy, and now, I understand why Bram expected me to have trouble keeping my eyes closed.
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart. There’s nothing you won’t do for me, is there?”
With a desperate whine of agreement, my legs part further, and though I know better than to beg, my body has a mind of its own. My teeth push painfully into my bottom lip as the ice dips into my belly button, then trails down, so cold it burns.
Bram’s free hand finds the underside of my knee, pushing it up and over the back of the couch. “I wish you could see how you look right now,” he murmurs, his voice controlled and even. “You’re stunning. Every fucking inch of you.”
Without warning, he brushes the ice cube over my clit, and I yelp, my hips shooting off the couch.
“Bram!” I plead, grasping the edge of the cushion beneath me, and cry out again as he presses harder, moving the cube in circles. It hurts, it’s too much, and yet I don’t want him to stop.
His hand splays flat over my lower belly, holding me down as the ice dips lower, dragging through my seam, and making me sob. I can feel it melting, the icy water gathering on the overpriced couch beneath me, but my exacting boss doesn’t seem to care. “When your head is healed, I won’t go so easy on you.”
This is going easy on me?
A broken sob breaks from my chest as he presses the ice cube inside me. It’s just for a moment, and yet I can feel tears streaming down the sides of my face. “Please,” I beg, “Please, Bram. Please!”
He ignores me, doing it again, and my cries grow louder. The arm thrown over my face falls to my side as I writhe, my eyes still squeezed shut. Finally, when I’m close to telling him I can’t do it anymore, the ice falls away and a warm hand cups my pussy.
Bram’s stubble brushes against my chest as he leans over my body, kissing the hollow between my breasts. “My good girl,” he murmurs, sucking on each of my nipples in turn. Beside the couch comes the quiet clatter of an ice cube hitting the floor. “You did so well.”
My eyes flutter open to meet Bram’s, and I tremble at the hungry, adoring expression on his face. “I think I liked it,” I tell him in a whisper, as if there’s someone to overhear us.
He chuckles and lowers his head to kiss me reverently. I don’t realize what his intention is until the head of his cock nudges my slick entrance.
Oh, thank God.
“Bram!” I hurry to step out of the way, pulling the sliding glass door open for what looks like a human-shaped snowman carrying half a dozen logs in his arms.
A gust of snow comes with him, and the floor is soaked in the time it takes me to close it again. Bram drops the logs into the metal holder beside the fireplace and pulls the snow-covered hat off, shaking his damp hair like a wet dog.
“The crackling fireplace is romantic and Christmasy and all, but I think we should just hope the whole central heat thing works out,” I tell him as I throw a pair of hand towels on the floor, step on them, and begin shuffling over the hardwood to wipe up the melted snow.
Outside, the last of the deep-gray daylight is fading from the sky, and the storm is raging worse than ever.
Bram disregarded my blind trust in the local electrical grid and was concerned about losing power. Hence the evening stroll through a blizzard to get a pile of firewood.
Now, safely inside, he steals a brief kiss from me on his way to hang up his coat. “Tell me about Kentucky.”
His question throws me off, and I’m instantly on alert, my muscles bunching with the familiar defensiveness I always seem to get when someone starts asking questions about my childhood.
“What about it?” I lean down to pick up the damp towels, watching out the corner of my eye as Bram returns his coat and boots to the hall closet.
He closes the door, giving me his familiar serious, thinking face. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, Sophie. I was just curious about how you grew up.”
Oof. He asked an innocent, getting-to-know-you type question, and I was immediately on guard. I’ve already given him some of the basic facts, which is a lot for me, but I know it’s still not enough. If I want this thing with Bram to work—and I really, really do—then I can’t just clam up whenever my childhood is mentioned.
Stewing, I follow him back into the living room and curl up at the end of the couch, watching blindly as he begins stacking wood in the dark fireplace.
“I was a bad kid,” I admit, and while Bram continues with his task, I can tell he’s listening. “My older brothers were all on the football team, elected to student council, taught Sunday school, the whole All-American boy deal. Meanwhile, I was getting suspended, getting drunk, and driving my dad’s truck into a storm drain. They didn’t know what to do with me, so they doubled down on the religion stuff, and that only made it worse.”
Even then, riddled with adolescent angst and contempt for the religion being shoved down my throat, I couldn’t justify my actions. I acted out for the sake of it, to prove I was different and embarrass my parents, even if I knew it was wrong.
Bram situates the last log in the hearth, and looks over at me, his expression gentle. “You weren’t a bad kid, you were a teenage girl, Sophie. As a man who raised two, I can confidently say they’re monsters at the best of times. That, coupled with your differences from your family.” He frowns, searching my face. “I think you need to forgive yourself.”
It’s hard when they haven’t forgiven me, though I’ve made my peace with the very real possibility they never will.
Bram sets about lighting the fire, and by the time a small flame has caught on the smallest of the logs, I’m feeling balanced enough to offer him a tiny, reassuring smile. “I’m working on it,” I promise, fiddling with the hem of my borrowed T-shirt. “I know I’m not a bad person, but I did bad things, and now…” I trail off, my throat tight. Now, I’m betraying my best friend by having this conversation at all.
Bram’s head tilts, and I watch as he pushes to his feet and crosses the room to kneel right in front of me, taking my hands in his. “It isn’t the same thing, Sophie.” He’s so handsome right now, serious and determined, his warm stare unwavering as it meets my own. “Making poor decisions as a child does not mean you have to deprive yourself of happiness as an adult.”
Something is expanding inside me as I nod, squeezing his hands. “Let’s do holiday things.”
“Okay,” Bram agrees with a throaty chuckle. “Let’s do holiday things.”