10. Stone
STONE
The door slams shut to my hotel room, and I can breathe.
But what I want to breathe in is the scent of Jackson. I want to know exactly what it’d be like to bury my face in my bodyguard’s neck, inhale him, find out if he smells like something woodsy or spicy. Then I want to bite his ear, run my fingers through that hair.
I can’t believe I’m picturing him like this.
But when he was behind me in the elevator, our bodies touching, it almost felt like maybe, just maybe, he was thinking the same things.
That’s crazy.
Insane.
But right now, I feel crazy.
I have no idea if up is down or right is wrong. All I know is I can’t stop picturing the man who just left, the man I know so well and the man I barely know a thing about.
I want to know more. What makes him tick, what he likes, what he doesn’t like. And, most of all, if he likes men.
He’s got to be straight. I’ve been damn sure he’s straight.
Except . . . that moment in the elevator.
That moment in the elevator is seared in my mind as I slump against the door, unzip my jeans, take out my dick, and slide a hand down it, exhaling hard in relief.
I press my thumb over the head, pushing out a bead of liquid.
It feels so damn good to touch myself after being near Jackson a few minutes ago.
But it would feel a little better if I had some assistance.
I zip up my jeans most of the way, head to the bathroom, grab the lube, then return to the living room.
After pushing my jeans down, I flop onto the couch and open the cap of the lube.
I pour a little bit in my palm, then grip myself, shuddering as the lube eases the path of pleasure.
I close my eyes, sinking back into the cushions and giving in to a fantasy that I know is dangerous. Picturing my bodyguard doing wicked things to my body. Imagining his hands on my chest, on my arms, on my legs, on my shaft.
My dick twitches, jumping in my hand.
I like that image a lot—Jackson Pearce right here with me, his big hand gripping me, stroking me, his eyes gleaming with lust as he touches me for the first time, then as he slams his lips to mine, kissing me fiercely while stroking my shaft.
I let out a long, shuddery moan, then I give all the way in to my dirty dreams, letting a reel of images flicker before my eyes. His lips move down my body, over my chest, to my stomach, on a fast track for my shaft. He’ll take me in his mouth, draw me in to the back of his throat.
I groan savagely as I picture how he would look between my legs, those hazel eyes going all glossy with lust as he tastes me for the first time.
My shoulders shake at that gorgeous, dirty thought.
And at all the others that visit me. Him pulling me on top of him, telling me to ride him, to get on his dick, because he’s going to fuck me hard.
I imagine doing exactly that, as my hands travel over his chest and I take him deep.
Or maybe he’d want me to fuck him. Maybe he’d want to switch things up, trade off.
Whatever.
I’d do it. I’d do anything. I’d slide into his hard ass and bury my dick in him.
Hell, right now, I’d just like to slam my body against his, feel his thick shaft, grip both our dicks in one hand.
I’d barely need anything more. That would be enough. I’m sweating, hot everywhere, like I’ve become the furnace for this whole hotel and I am cranked high. My blood is on fire; my desires spiral out of this world.
Gripping harder, stroking faster, I pretend he’s here with me right now.
I’m jerking us both, driving him wild, till he tells me in that deep, raspy voice, “Come all over me.”
I tremble at that thought. Then I shoot in my hand, groaning and grunting as I picture coming all over my bodyguard.
Panting, I sigh heavily, loving that image, but cursing it too.
Wishing it weren’t just a dirty, filthy dream.