Chapter 24 Who Said Business And Pleasure Don’t Mix? #3
The playboy troublemaker of the hockey team looks like a centerfold spread out before me—the apotheosis of relaxation, toned body dotted in perspiration, abs gleaming like wet bricks at the bottom of a well.
I’m a slut for praise, and I jump the gun by eating another inch of his dick, only to accidentally unsheathe my teeth and scrape them against the sensitive skin. He cringes, tugging on my hair for the first time since I’ve knelt before him, and I can feel his cock twitch in between my lips.
“Uh, try—try not to use your teeth. You just have to relax your throat a little more,” he tells me.
I pop off immediately, taking some of his slick with me as embarrassment picks the stupid lock guarding my heart. “I’m sorry.”
Although he’s still tense—like my half bite mangled every one of his nerve endings—there’s no reproach in his tone. A nice change from the little voice in my head that serves as my worst critic.
“There’s no need to apologize, baby. You’re doing everything right. It’s just a preference.”
My jaw is starting to hurt, my bare knees are picking up imprints from the hardwood floor, and my empty belly is begging for something to fill it. A growling hunger with an appetite for something inedible, wholly human.
I’m determined to make him come. So, compiling every full-lipped suckle or lap that he’s liked so far (identified by a responsive jerk from his dick), I milk his length, watching his face for that orgasmic haze that lingers on the horizon, promising catharsis.
“Atta girl. You look so pretty with my cock in your mouth,” he coos, tipping my chin up just slightly so our eyes collide in a maelstrom of passion. “Eyes on me. Let me see what I do to you.”
I don’t come up for air. I don’t make the same mistake using my teeth.
I do gag a little, but the sound does more for him than me.
I maintain eye contact for as long as I can, even as moisture sizzles in my tear ducts and congests my sinuses.
Judging by the hitch of his breath and the flex of his cock, he’s almost there.
I’m so caught up in the overstimulation of it all that I don’t register his half-drafted warning.
“Shit, fuck. Staten, you might want to pull aw—”
The next thing I know, ribbons of warm cum are pouring down my throat at an incomprehensible rate, so abundant that I need to swallow at least five times to down everything he gives me. The taste is no longer acquired—it’s something I chase after.
Cock-drunk, my vision brightens like pyrotechnics backfiring into the bruise of night, and Knox’s whole body sags against the mattress, his cock deflating as he slips it out from between my lips. A mixture of cum and saliva messes the bottom half of my face, but I’m in no rush to wipe it off.
Knox—who’s still trying to collect his bearings—leans forward just enough to thumb some of our combined glaze off my chin and stick the pad in his mouth. He groans at the flavor profile, and maybe it’s a trick of the light, but I swear his cock starts to grow again.
“That was…fast,” I say, stunned, unsure if quickness correlates with quality performance. A part of me wants to go again, but with the full experience—his dick tapping the back of my throat, his balls swinging against my face, his hands pulling my hair.
Knox’s chuckle is gruff, and I never knew that a man’s voice, of all things, could do it for me. He makes room for me on the bed, resting his head against the fortress of pillows as I curl up against his side, clinging to him like he’s the only source of body heat in Antarctica’s vast wilderness.
“Have you seen yourself? I’m surprised I even lasted that long.”
“You’re going to give me a complex,” I joke, tracing whirls over his stomach with my fingers.
“Staten, that’s my job as your unofficial boyfriend,” he replies.
Unofficial…right. Even though we’ve had sex, I forgot that we aren’t really together.
I mean, this is all fake. This is all for show.
This carefully crafted plan was just a ploy to get Leif to notice me.
Who, by the way, I haven’t thought about in weeks.
I don’t like living under the assumption that what I feel for Knox is just some byproduct of forced proximity and an uncertified contract.
I have no idea if he wants to be more than friends.
And usually, I’d be too scared to disrupt the delicate balance between us, but not belonging to him is the worst of the two outcomes.
I halt my mindless patternmaking to look up at him. “Maybe…maybe it doesn’t have to be that way.”
He inclines his head. “What?”
“What if I want the real thing with you?”
There it is…I’ve just put everything on the table. I don’t think I’ll survive if he rejects me. Should I have held my tongue? We had a good thing going.
“Are you serious?” he exclaims, sitting halfway up as if he’s about to jump out of his skin.
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life,” I whisper, my mouth slanting into a small smile.
His voice soars an octave higher, and he’s giddier than a lottery winner with five dollars to his name. “Holy shit, you’re—we’re—you have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”
He’s waited for this? He’s waited for me?
After all my complaints about Leif and the never-ending fawning?
He was never dissuaded? I mean, I came to him broken.
Physically, emotionally. Nobody in their right mind would pick a secondhand toy over something new and shiny.
For crying out loud, we’re complete opposites. We shouldn’t make sense.
Tears kiss the curves of my lashes. “You’ve wanted me all this time?”
Knox takes my hand so he can plant a kiss on the backs of my knuckles. “It’s kind of impossible not to.”