Chapter 7 #2
Sloane got the hint and took it off. Max bit the inside of her other thigh, catching a little skin and flesh this time, and Sloane made a noise deep in her throat and bucked her hips without meaning to before unhooking her bra and tossing it somewhere.
Max was wild eyed and pink. His hair was fucked up and his skin was red where he’d rubbed it against the rough denim of Sloane’s jeans, and he sat back on his heels and stared.
Sloane felt his attention like a spotlight, warm and so bright it glowed, so she met his eyes and slowly rolled one nipple between her fingers.
Deliberately, he palmed himself through his pants, eyes going half-lidded at the pressure before he leaned forward to nuzzle at Sloane’s crotch again.
Sloane swore and rolled her hips, and then Max was on his feet, pulling her forward, and they were kissing again, Max’s fingers rubbing her through her jeans.
Her whole body jolted every time they slid past her clit, and soon she was panting into his mouth while he scraped his thumbnail across the denim in short, hard strokes.
“You want me to make you come like this?” he asked, mouth against her ear. “Or get eaten out properly?”
Sloane leaned her head against his shoulder and breathed, trying to think through the low buzz of pleasure humming through her brain. How the fuck had he found her clit so easily through her jeans? Did he have—clit radar or something? Fuck, it was good. Good, but not enough.
“Properly,” she said, and the word was barely out of her mouth before he lifted her, legs around his waist, and spun around before tossing her down on the bed with a deeply unsexy oof.
“Take—” Max started, but Sloane already had the button and zipper down on her jeans, lifting her hips so Max could pull them off.
Then he was on her, over her, mouth on hers, on her neck, teeth scraping across one nipple, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her hip, pushing her thighs wide again and biting just hard enough that it might leave a mark.
“Holy shit,” he said, and ran two knuckles the length of her slit. He sounded awed. “You liked that.”
He pressed in, knuckles between her lips but fingers not inside, and Sloane fought the urge to grab his hair again and put his mouth where she wanted it.
“Of course I liked you touching my clit.” God, she sounded like a panting mess. “Feel free to—nnnnnguh. Fuck.”
Max was a fucking sight like this, tongue flattened against her clit, eyes closed like he was in a trance.
Sloane went up on one elbow, reached down, and stroked his hair out of his face.
He groaned, somewhere low in his chest, but didn’t open his eyes, just licked harder.
Sloane could hear herself, the noises she couldn’t help making, the bitten-off whines with every stroke of his tongue.
“That’s good,” she managed to say so he’d keep going, but she could have sworn Max laughed like he knew, and probably he did.
He’d zeroed in on her clit like his mouth was a homing missile, and now he shifted his weight just enough to finally push his fingers into her, moaning with his lips suctioned around her clit as he twisted his wrist and crooked his fingers, and Sloane came with a shout.
Max didn’t stop. Sloane couldn’t see him with her eyes closed and her head back, but he licked her through wave after wave as she shuddered and swore. He slowed but didn’t stop, even as she was catching her breath. It wasn’t until she got a hand in his hair and tugged that he came up for air.
“You sure?” he said. He still had two fingers knuckle-deep in her. Sloane clenched around them, just to feel it. “I’m not tired.”
“Come here before you kill me,” Sloane said, tugging at his hair again. Max slid his fingers out and kissed her hip, her fingers still tangled in his hair.
“C’mon, you’re tough,” he said, kissing his way up her belly to her sternum. “I bet you can take way more than that.”
Casually, he licked a nipple, then sucked it into his mouth. Sloane gasped so hard she nearly choked, and Max groaned, rough denim rutting against her inner thigh.
“You’re still wearing pants,” she said, running a foot along the back of his thigh. He murmured against her nipple in agreement. “Well, quit it.”
Max scraped his teeth against her nipple before pulling off.
He still tasted like Sloane when he kissed her, like she’d marked him, his face still sticky.
Sloane kissed him for longer than she meant to, until he was rutting against her hip, rock hard behind the zipper of his jeans.
She’d probably have a zipper-shaped bruise there tomorrow. She hoped she did, at least.
“It would help if you let me go,” he said finally, lips against the corner of her mouth, and oh, right, she still had a handful of his hair in one fist. “Thank you,” he murmured when she released him, and he sounded just sarcastic enough that Sloane rolled her eyes and pushed at his shoulder and said, “Go get naked already.”
Max slid off the foot of the bed, stood, and undid his jeans, his hair still tumbling around his shoulders in a way that Sloane found a little unfair.
Max was solid, wide through the shoulders and thighs.
It was mesmerizing, the way his hands looked as they pulled down his zipper, the way his thumbs hooked under the waistband of his jeans and boxers.
He was far too utilitarian about it to ever be a good stripper, but when he pulled his boxers past his dick, it bobbed up hard enough to hit his lower belly.
Sloane was pretty sure she could see the dot of moisture it left behind there.
“Better?” he asked, low and rough and smiling as he kicked his pants away and ran a hand through his hair. It made his bicep do things, and Sloane took a moment before she answered, sitting up on the bed and leaning back on her hands.
“Much,” she said, drew her legs together, and then, “C’mere.”
He crawled onto the bed, straddled her lap, and kissed her again, deep and hungry and still musk scented.
Sloane let him push her until she was on her back again, running her hands up and down his spread thighs.
The little hairs on them prickled under palms, hot skin over hard muscles.
The crease of his hip felt like velvet, and Max made a choked little noise when she ran her fingertips along it, hard cock bobbing between them, flushed and desperate for attention.
When she pulled back to look at him, there was a single clear drop on the underside of the head, almost ready to fall.
Sloane couldn’t tear her eyes away, both hands clenching on Max’s thighs.
Fuck, he looked good like this: hard and dripping, staring down at her wide-eyed and wild haired.
Sloane put her hands around the backs of his thighs and pulled until Max got the message and knee-shuffled forward.
His dick bobbed, and the movement made him drip onto her chest. If she’d had a hand free, she’d have licked it off.
“Closer,” she said instead, and now he had a hand against the headboard, bracing himself, legs spread wide. He was breathing hard, eyes dark, looking down at her with something like awe as Sloane ran her hands up his thighs to his hips, dug her fingers in, and pulled.
“Yeah?” Max rumbled, soft and low and surprisingly gentle as he shifted his hips forward. Sloane didn’t bother answering, but she swallowed hard and met his eyes and stuck her tongue out, mouth open in invitation.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Max whispered. He wrapped a hand around the base of his dick, strong, and certain, rougher than he’d been with the whiskey glass or the suitcase latches, but he was careful as he shifted his hips forward, lips parted and eyes wide, to rub the underside of his cock against Sloane’s tongue.
The fucking sound he made, a choked-off, broken moan that Sloane felt between her legs. Gently, Max flexed his hips and pushed between her lips, his muscles trembling under her hands as she gripped harder, urging him on.
“God, look at you,” he murmured, and his time he reached the back of her tongue and let out a shuddering breath. “You’re a sight.”
Instead of responding, Sloane wrapped her lips around the head of his dick and sucked, running her tongue along the underside. Max groaned again, something that sounded like half-formed profanity as Sloane let her eyes close and enjoyed it.
Max’s cock was like the rest of him: sturdy, a little longer than average, and thick.
He leaked like a faucet, the taste of it bitter on the back of her tongue.
He hesitated when she tugged at him, straining her neck to get more of him into her mouth, muscles straining under her hands.
When her lips touched his fingers, he took them off his dick, slowly, and braced that hand against the headboard, breathing harsh and loud in the hotel room.
He fucked Sloane’s mouth cautiously at first, slow and easy, rolling his hips.
Sloane flattened her tongue and sucked at the head, hard and thick in her mouth and listened, because Max was noisy, a constant stream of sounds and whispers and half-choked compliments escaping him.
He said Fuck, Sloane, when she rubbed her tongue against the underside of the head and So fucking good when she swallowed with him half in her mouth and God, the way you look when he stopped hesitating and started going a little harder, a little deeper.
Sloane lost herself in it for a bit, the way she did sometimes—the weight of it on her tongue, the stretch of her mouth, the feel of someone falling apart because of her, the look on Max’s face whenever she opened her eyes, lust and adoration and something like surprise.
Soon he was shaking, tremors rocking through his whole body with the force of holding back, frustration at the shallow angle and the tease, and Sloane loved every fucking second of it.
Max sounded desperate, and she knew he was coming apart at the seams, close to coming but not quite able to get all the way there, so she pulled off with a wet pop and held his hips back.
“Are you—”
“Roll over,” she said, pushing at him.
Max flopped over with his legs spread, torso propped on the hotel pillows. He still had one hand braced against the headboard, and as Sloane wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and crawled between his legs, he slid his other hand into her hair.
When she licked a stripe up the underside of his cock, he groaned, fingers flexing.
“Careful,” Sloane said with another short, gentle lick. “I’m delicate.”
“I’ll be gentle,” he said, voice wrecked, moving to prop himself up on one elbow. “I just want to watch.”
And yeah, Sloane got it. Not five minutes ago, she’d had the exact same thought, watching Max between her legs, eating her out like his life depended on it.
The knowledge that watching was half the fun pooled somewhere low in her belly as she slid her lips down as far as she could go and Max said Christ, your mouth or something.
He was close already, one hand in her hair, gentle as promised, the other restless, scrabbling in the sheets and grasping them so hard she could hear the rustle.
She swallowed him down until her eyes watered, feeling the way his thighs trembled under her hands, the way he wanted to thrust into her mouth and didn’t.
He was being so good, nice and gentle and easy even though, when she pulled back to suck at the tip of his cock, she could see the veins standing out in his forearms and a whine escaped him as he threw his head back onto the pillows.
Sloane had half a mind to stop for a minute, let him come down.
Maybe wait for him to beg her to start again.
Instead, she took him as deep as she could and swallowed around him.
“Sloane,” he said as she pulled back, hand tighter in her hair. “Fuck, I’m so close. I’m—”
Sloane didn’t let him finish, just hollowed her cheeks and swallowed as he came, hips jerking, until he was going soft in her mouth and pulling harder at her hair. Max gasped again when Sloane popped off, kissed his hip, and then flopped over to the side to catch her breath.
“What?” He sounded confused and bewildered. “Where’d you go?”
“I’m right—” Sloane sounded like she’d just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes. She cleared her throat. “I’m right here.” Her face was somewhere around his rib cage, and she didn’t feel like moving.
“Ugh, don’t be down there,” he said, and then he was scooting down the bed until they were face-to-face, pink still high on his cheekbones, his hair a complete disaster. “What the hell.”
His face was an inch from hers, and he swiped one thumb under her right eye.
Sloane blinked a couple times in rapid succession—she tended to tear up when she gave blow jobs, depending on enthusiasm—and Max kissed her, slow and soft and sweet.
It was…nice? Nice in a comfortable, cozy way she hadn’t quite expected.
Nice in a way the men she hooked up with weren’t always.
Obviously Sloane didn’t fuck the not-nice men more than once, but it could be hard to tell beforehand. People were surprising.
Max was surprising, for all his sharp-edged teasing and hair-pulling.
He held her face gently for a moment, brushing his thumb along her cheek, then dropped his hand to stroke her spine.
It was lovely and soothing and kind of made her want to take him up on his offer to go down on her some more, but that was probably greedy and besides, the moment was over.
“Better than beach ghosts?” she asked, because that felt safe and normal. Max laughed and kissed her again twice: a peck on the mouth and then on the forehead.
“So much better than beach ghosts,” he agreed.