14. Dash
FOURTEEN
DASH
I’m standing between her parted legs, and she’s perched on the edge of the bed where I set her, totally naked, nothing between her and my hungry eyes except the faintest haze rising from the heat of her skin.
Her thick, long, brown hair is still perfectly styled, and I wanna make it wild.
Her right hand holds the fall of it, the dark length running over her palm and down her forearm.
I don’t know if she realizes her own power in that moment, or if she’s wielding it with deliberate grace, like the way she knows how to turn her nakedness into a weapon, but she does.
Her left hand is braced behind her, wrist angled backward, propping up the rest of her hot as fuck body.
Her skin is pale, almost luminescent in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, but her nipple—her left nipple—is what draws my attention, its color so deep it’s almost purple, the areola pebbled and taut, like it’s begging me to take it between my lips again and tug it, hard and slow, until she’s arching against my mouth.
She’s naked. Not shy, not bashful, not even that calculated DM kind of naked, but truly, authentically naked, with the air hitting every surface and her goosebumps rising in anticipation.
The heat in my chest is outmatched only by the ache in my crotch, my cock hard as steel and corralling itself behind the fabric of my suit pants, but I’m not in a rush, not with her.
I know what I’m working with. I know how to use it.
And, more importantly, I know that, right now, the thing she wants most is not my cock.
Not yet. She wants my mouth. She wants my hands.
She wants to be fucked open, made soft, melted down into something she didn’t even know she could be but writes about.
So, when I finally slide inside her, it will be the only thing her body recognizes as real, and those paperboys will have a dash of heat behind them.
I’ve always been this way. It’s not arrogance; it’s just an anatomical fact.
I spent my adolescence in locker rooms, smacked towels with the best of them, eyed up the competition, and you learn early which side of the genetic lottery you’re on.
My dick’s a solid seven soft, and when I grow, I outpace every other bastard in the room, and I only say this because I’ve done my research, I’ve done my due diligence, and I know what I’ve got.
But that’s the thing—just because you’ve got a heavy stick doesn’t mean you swing for the goal every time.
Sometimes, you pass. Sometimes, you lay down the perfect play so that fans—or in this case, fan …
singular—can enjoy the, uh, game more thoroughly.
With Noelle, I want to give her my tongue and my finger.
You make her come so hard the rest of her life looks different afterward.
This is the only thing I care about in this moment—the art and science of making her come.
Not once, not twice, but as many times as I can drag the pleasure out of her body before she begs for a respite, before she’s so desperate and raw she can’t remember her own name and never forgets mine.
I’m just now realizing I have been starved for it.
Years of refusing to eat pussy, saying, “I’m just not into that,” and I wasn’t.
It’s a whole different story when I plan to claim it, mark it, make it mine.
Never had a complaint, because I’m not like the other guys who never even bothered to find the clit, let alone a G-spot.
So when I step forward, knees grazing the edge of the mattress, I let my hands frame her thighs, thumb brushing the seam where hip turns into groin, and I just look at her. Take her in.
She’s breathing fast, tits rising and falling, the curve of her ribs visible under her skin, that blush creeping up from her chest to her cheeks.
I fucking love this: the anticipation, the suspense, the way her cunt is already slick and swollen, the way she keeps sneaking glances at the lump under my waistband, eyes wide and hungry but also uncertain.
She doesn’t know yet what I’ll do. If I’ll be worth it. That’s okay. I’ll prove it.
I kneel between her legs, nose level with her navel, and drag my hands up from her knees to her hips, spreading her wider, forcing her open.
Her scent hits me—raw, musky, and honest. I press my face into her belly, letting my lips glide over her skin, breathing her in, mapping the geography of a scar, the little downy hairs that only show up in certain light.
She’s trembling under me, not from fear but from wanting, and when I flick my tongue out to trace a slow line up from her mound to her belly button, she lets out a soft, guttural noise, the kind she made when we kissed but from somewhere deeper.
She’s not waxed, thank fuck. I hate those hairless, prepubescent pussies.
She’s got a trimmed triangle of brown hair, softer than I expect, and I run my nose through it, parting it with my tongue, searching for the slick heat beneath.
The first taste of her is electric: tart, salty, alive.
I let my lips linger at the apex, sucking gently at the hood of her clit without touching it directly, letting the anticipation build, letting her mind race.
I know exactly what I’m doing, how to keep her wanting more without giving it all away, and I can tell by the way her thighs tense and flex against my jaw that she’s dangerously close to begging for it.
But I’m not on my knees to tease her. I’m here to ruin her for anyone else.
So, I dive in, tongue flat and broad, licking from the bottom of her entrance up to the top, repeating until she’s grabbing fistfuls of my hair and grinding herself against my face.
I add my fingers—one, then two—curling them inside her as I suck her clit into my mouth, flicking it with the tip of my tongue, alternating pressure and speed until her back is arched and she’s making those desperate, choked-off gasps.
I can feel her squeezing around my fingers, can feel the heat rising off her body like a furnace, and I know she’s close.
So I clamp my free hand over her hip, pinning her down, and I don’t stop.
I keep licking, keep fucking her with my hand, my tongue, keep driving her higher and higher until she breaks, until she screams so loud the front fucking desk is probably getting calls, until her whole body goes rigid and her cunt floods my hand, soaking my wrist and dripping onto the sheets. It’s fucking hot, so hot.
When she finally shudders down, limp and boneless, I don’t let go. I keep my fingers inside her, slow and gentle now, massaging her from the inside like I’m playing her like an instrument. I kiss the inside of her thigh, nuzzle her mound, taste the mix of sweat and cum on my lips.
Her eyes are glassy, unfocused, her mouth open in a dazed little smile. She looks at me like she’s never seen me before, like I’m a hallucination conjured by her own imagination.
I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, grin up at her, and only then do I let her catch her breath. I don’t say anything. The shit-eating grin on my face does all the talking for me. I want her to know she just got the single best orgasm of her life, and that I’m only getting started.
“What’s my name, Noelle?”
She slaps her hands over her mouth, and I think it’s because she’s hiding her face, so I don’t see her laugh or swoon. Hell, I’m betting on both.
I lean in and give her clit another suck.
“No, no, no,” she says as she lightly kicks me away and rolls to her side and off the bed. “I think I’m gonna get sick.”
Well fuck , I did not see that situation on my Bingo card … ever.
She doesn’t answer me. Just sways forward, makes this awful sound, and before I can react?—
Warm splash.
Right on my pants. And my shoes.
I blink down at her, then at myself, then back at her. “Well, that’s … new.”
She groans, clutching her stomach.
“Okay, Pembrooke, let’s get you to the bathroom before you finish redecorating me.” I hook an arm around her waist, guiding her as quickly as I can to the bathroom. She’s light, and I’m half-hauling, half-dodging another wave of disaster.
We make it to the bathroom just in time. I kneel with her, grab a clip from the counter, and sweep her hair back, fingers fumbling like I’ve suddenly been cast ina makeover show.I twist, snap, and—miracle of miracles—her hair stays pinned.
“See?” I mutter as she leans over the toilet again. “Multitalented. Hockey, commercials, hairstyling in crisis situations.”
She doesn’t laugh. Just groans louder.
By the third round of retching, I’ve stripped out of my pants and shoes, both casualties beyond repair. Luckily, my boxers are unscathed. Score one for me.
After insisting she brush her teeth, she eventually slumps against the counter, cheek pressed flat to the cool marble with a giant sigh. Her eyes are closed, breathing soft and shallow, she’s already halfway to asleep.
I crouch, shaking my head. “This is exactly how I pictured tonight going. You in a robe, me in boxers, union not commenced.”
Her only response is a little snore.
I knew she’d be mortified. Hell, I was counting down the seconds until it hit her.
She’s standing in the middle of my suite now, swimming in one of my button-downs, bare legs peeking out beneath the hem.
Hair a little wild, face pale, but not nearly as wrecked as last night.
And when her eyes lock on me—just out of the bathroom in nothing but red boxers covered in hockey sticks—her jaw drops.
Perfect.
“Oh my God,” she breathes, tugging the shirt tighter around herself.
I grin, not even pretending to be sorry. “Morning, Noelle. Sleep well?”
Her cheeks flame. “Why am I in your shirt?”
“Puke isn’t your color. And your room smelled like something died in there, so I threw my shirt on you when I carried you from there to here. And before you ask, yes, relocation was necessary.”