15. Adair #2
My eyes lock on his as he pulls off his clothes, piece by deliberate piece, unwrapping his gorgeous body for me. The muscles of his torso flex, shadows playing across his defined chest and abs.
My gaze dips lower, and I inhale sharply at the sight of his thick cock, long, hard, and ready. My pussy throbs with a deep, needy pulse that echoes through me.
“I want you,” I whisper, unable to resist touching him. My fingers wrap around his warm, rigid length, savoring the velvet texture of his skin.
His breath shudders as my grasp tightens slightly, stroking him in a slow, teasing rhythm. His eyes flash with raw desire, and his jaw tenses as I quicken my pace. My voice drops to a husky murmur as I lean closer, brushing my lips against his.
“I want you to put this…” I stroke him harder, faster, reveling in his sharp intake of breath, knowing exactly how much he wants me, too.
“…inside me.” My arm burns, but I don’t stop. The friction, the motion, all of it is bringing me to the brink of coming without even a touch. Now, he has to finish it.
“Now.”
I gasp as he lifts me onto the counter in one smooth, powerful move. My breath stutters when his strong hands grab my thighs, spreading my legs wide, making room for him, and then he slowly kisses down.
Heat blooms deep inside me as his lips trail slowly up my inner thigh, leaving a burning path toward my core.
“Ladies first,” he says, that wicked smirk tugging at his mouth as he sinks to his knees.
Then he breathes against me. It's warm, and humid, and teasing. I jolt like I’ve been struck. One shudder, and I’m already unraveling.
And then his tongue, slow and confident and precise, licks me from one end to the other. The first stroke is soft, almost reverent, and my fingers curl tight around the counter’s edge as my hips lurch toward him.
“Parker—” It comes out like a warning. Or maybe a plea.
He hums low, satisfied, like he’s tasted something he plans to savor. His hands slide under my ass and pull me closer to the edge, opening me wider. He anchors me there while he devours me like I’m the only thing he’s hungry for.
His tongue moves with maddening patience. Circling and flicking, causing my body to react involuntarily. Each motion is designed to wreck me slowly. My thighs quiver around his shoulders, desperate and weak.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp. “God, don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He doubles down.
When he dips lower, tongue plunging inside me, I cry out—raw and broken—rocking against his mouth without shame. He moans into me, the vibration sparking deep in my core, and I swear I see stars.
Every flick, every suck, every deliberate stroke is a promise.
He’s not letting me go until I fall apart for him.
My body tightens, nerves singing, the pressure coiling hard and fast. I’m so close I can barely breathe.
He senses it—presses his mouth firmly against me, tongue circling my clit while his lips close around it and suck, slow and perfect .
I shatter.
Pleasure slams through me like a freight train. I gasp loudly, from somewhere deep inside. I clutch his hair as everything tightens, then breaks.
My thighs lock around his head. I’m shaking so hard I can’t think, can’t breathe.
But he doesn’t stop.
He keeps going, relentless and reverent, like he's not satisfied until I’m twitching, half-sobbing, completely wrecked. Every nerve lights up, my skin buzzing, heart stuttering.
By the time it’s over, I’m limp. Boneless. Brain short-circuited.
He kisses the inside of my thigh before rising, and suddenly I’m weightless. In his arms. Carried like I weigh nothing at all.
My legs wrap around him instinctively, like my body already knows where this is going. His heartbeat thunders against mine as he walks us to the bedroom, his eyes locked on me, dark, primal, and full of something I can’t name.
He lays me down like I’m breakable. Like I’m his.
The sheets are cool against my back, but he’s all heat, looming above me, stripping off his clothes with that quiet, controlled urgency that makes my breath catch.
Then he pauses, breathing hard. “Condoms in my wallet,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Left it in my pants… back in the living room.”
I blink, dazed. “Seriously?”
He grins—crooked, flushed, gorgeous—and presses a quick kiss to my mouth. “Don’t move.”
Then he’s gone, bare ass disappearing down the hallway in a blur of muscle and urgency.
I lie there catching my breath, still trembling, heart pounding. And when he returns—condom packet in hand, wild-eyed like he sprinted a marathon—something about it guts me. The mix of lust and care. Of want and restraint.
He tears the wrapper open, his eyes locked on mine, and my whole chest squeezes. Not from need, but from whatever this thing is we’re pretending not to feel.
The night is his now.
And maybe… so am I.
I don’t want to admit that. I’ve fought too hard to stay detached, to keep this transactional. But no matter how much I push the thought away, it keeps coming back.
Especially when he touches me like this.