Chapter 24 Who Said Business And Pleasure Don’t Mix? #2
“The green light symbolizes Gatsby’s idealized future. It’s purposefully far away to comment on how unattainable the American Dream is,” he purrs, taking his sweet time as he watches inch after inch of skin come into the light, waiting to be bruised and bitten beyond recognition.
I push my chest out to him—my breasts cupped by a sexy, black, lacy bra—and I tumble over myself in a slipstream of adrenaline. He does a terrible job of adjusting the bulge in his pants with any minutia of decorum.
“Fuck, Staten. I’ve been dreaming of this.
Taking you on all different surfaces in the vicinity, watching those perfect tits bounce as I bottom into that vice-tight cunt of yours.
You have no idea how much I crave you—the little noises you make, the smell of your cum, your unwavering obedience that has me gripping my cock in the shower at two in the morning. ”
I roll my hips against the air, feeling the walls of my pussy undulate. The fact that he’s been jerking off to me is a terrible, terrible disclosure of information. I’m already wetter than the Pacific Ocean, and I still have half my clothes on.
“Then hurry up and answer all the questions,” I grit through my teeth.
“Yes, ma’am.”
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 impenetrable ego, 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 will always do 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, past experience, 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 you have to do anything.”
I have no idea what comes over me next, but I operate on pure impulse, revisiting the little box labeled LACK OF EXPERIENCE that’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.
I’ve got two spirits playing backseat driver on my shoulders right now—a devil egging me on, and an angel trying to warn me about the very real ramifications of lockjaw. “It’s—wow, that’s…”
“Intimidating?”
“Big.”
Knox gives his dick a half-hearted pump, sustaining circulation. Though I don’t think anything in this universe could make him soft again. “You’ve seen it before. Don’t flatter me, Staten.”
Still in my lacy lingerie, I situate myself on the ground, on my knees, so I’m at an opportune angle to suck him off. Knox scoots his body to the edge of the bed, his cock jutting out in front of him.
My first reservation of the night flakes off my tongue. “Is it okay if I take my time? I’m just not really sure—”
He takes my face in his hands. “Hey, it’s more than okay. The fact that you want to do this at all is incredible. You don’t need to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
“What if I don’t make you come?”
“Again, we’re talking about impossibilities here, Ace. I could come just from staring at you in that skimpy little two-piece. No touching required. But it’s more fun if there is.”
Nodding, I prepare myself with a crack of my jaw to loosen the hinges, and then, before I lose my gall, my lips envelop just the upcurved tip.
His musk hits me immediately, the saltiness from his spend overwhelming in the best kind of way.
My mouth salivates, and thanks to the thin film of lubrication already sheeting his shaft, it’s easy to position him accordingly.
The deep pit in his throat issues a half-strung moan, and my overachieving disposition wants to hear every note change of his vocalized pleasure.
“You can—you can use your tongue,” he whispers, snapping his hips toward my face.
Priding myself on being a fast learner, I do as he says, darting my tongue out to explore the ridges of his cock, employing some kind of tag team effort to lick and suck at the same time. His piercings are cold and bitter in taste, but they don’t impede me as much as I thought they would.
Knox’s stomach crunches, and he wrestles a hand into my hair for support. “Fuck, baby. Just like that. That’s perfect. You’re a goddamn natural.”
When I harvest the courage to go deeper, I make sure to hollow my cheeks before descending, and I get a hungry kickback from his dick that tells me I’m acing this whole blowjob thing. Call it a stroke of genius, if you will.
I’m halfway down the size of him. I know better than to try and deep-throat him right out of the gate.
Sticking to a suction that distributes just the right amount of pressure, I bob my head like I’ve seen girls do in explicit movies, though I failed to account for the amount of spit and drool involved.
Even allowing him a wide berth, the lip-splitting intrusion wrings enough saliva from my glands to have it dribbling down my chin.
Knox doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he’s conducting a chorus of moans and whimpers that makes my pussy spurt liquid desire in response.
“Jesus, Staten. That feels so good. You feel so fucking good.”