25. Putting the “Oh” in Alone
PUTTING THE “OH” IN ALONE
Dean
We hadn’t had privacy like this, not even once.
Our bodies had always crashed together under a deadline: the threat of being found in a utility closet, bathroom, my truck, her SUV, or the pressure of my own damn responsibilities.
It was never about candles or music or soft landings.
It was about relief, necessity—the kind that hits hard and fast and leaves you reeling at the edge of what you can take.
Even when we’d both been desperate to take it slow, we never had the chance.
When she dropped to her knees, it should have felt familiar. We’d stolen moments like this before, but always with a sense of panic, like we were shoplifting time from someone else’s life. Not here. Not now.
I’d imagined this a thousand times, but the reality was almost too much to absorb.
She looked up at me, blue eyes wide, lips full, hair tumbling over her bare shoulders, skin flushed and practically vibrating with anticipation.
Her hands were delicate but unyielding as she wrapped her fingers around my cock, her thumb skimming along the underside in a way that made me want to shatter on the spot.
She leaned in and kissed the tip, then dragged her tongue down the shaft like she was savoring it, cataloguing every part of me she could claim. I swore and flexed my hips, which only made her smile around my engorged head as she sucked me between her lips, cheeks hollowing with effort.
Her free hand slid between her own thighs, and I watched her touch herself, the movement shameless and perfect. She wanted me to see everything. She wanted me to know how much she loved doing this, loved being the reason I was coming apart. It was so fucking hot it almost hurt.
I was going to lose it, and not because I was weak, but because I’d never seen anything like her. I’d never felt anything like that in my life. Every nerve in my body was tuned to her—her touch, her mouth, the whimpering little gasps she made, as if her pleasure surprised her.
She was my living fantasy come true, hungrily taking me in, one hand stroking my cock the way she knew would push me to the edge, the other dipping between her legs, a silent, filthy encouragement to let go.
It was almost too much. I braced myself, digging my fingers into the edge of her dresser, my other hand twisted in her hair, and tried to pretend I could last. That I was in control.
I wasn’t.
She looked up at me, a wicked glint in her eye, and hollowed her cheeks around me, then popped off with a gasp just to murmur how good I tasted.
My head dropped back, neck straining as I cursed beneath my breath.
My thighs trembled, and I realized I’d never been this close to coming in my whole damn life.
Not from just a mouth. Not from just a look.
Not from just a flash of memory, all the stolen moments in parking lots and closets and the back seat of my truck coalescing into this perfect, expanded universe where nothing rushed us, and nothing threatened to end it.
I wanted to come. I wanted to hold back. I wanted to drown in her.
But she wanted to taste me. She wanted to watch me lose it. She worked her hand and mouth in unison, nearly taking the choice away from me.
So when my balls tightened, and my vision blacked at the edges, I did the only thing I could—I reached down, cupped her jaw, and gently but firmly pulled her up to her feet.
A satisfied grin spread across her face as she wiped the back of her hand across her lips. “Was it too much?” she teased, voice rough as gravel, but there was a flush high on her cheeks that said she was just as wrecked.
I didn’t answer. I grabbed her waist and lifted her, like she weighed nothing, and set her gently on the bed.
For a second, she just sprawled there, hair wild, eyes wide, legs parted like she was already ready for me.
But I wasn’t going to give her what she wanted.
Not yet. Not until I’d mapped every inch of her.
I started at her ankle, kissing the inside of her left foot, then ghosting my lips up her calf.
I took my time, letting my stubble scratch lightly at her skin, watching the goosebumps flower in my wake.
She watched me, propped on her elbows, lips parted.
When I got to her knee, I paused and let my mouth linger, biting lightly, then soothing the spot with my tongue.
I could feel her muscles tense and relax under my hands.
Every slow inch I moved further up her leg, her breathing got heavier, her chest rising and falling like she’d just finished a sprint. The smell of her was everywhere—sweet, sharp, overwhelming. I could practically taste her arousal before my mouth even reached her thigh.
I kissed my way up, deliberately skipping over where she wanted me most, even as she arched her hips off the mattress, silently begging. I held her legs open, pressed my face into her inner thigh, and just breathed her in. She made a sound, half-growl, half-whimper, that went straight to my core.
“Dean,” she said. Her voice was a command and a plea.
I looked up at her, made her meet my eyes, letting my thumb trace the line of her hip, my hand splay across her belly.
She shuddered, the movement rippling through her entire body. “Yours,” she said, voice breaking.
I wanted to say something clever back, but all I could do was press my lips to her hip bone and keep moving north. I kissed her stomach, slow and reverent, then her ribs, then the underside of her breast.
My hands slid up her body, tracing the arch of her ribcage, the delicate flutter of her pulse at her throat, before settling on her breasts.
I cupped them, weighed them in my palms, thumbs circling until her nipples stood hard and puckered.
Her breath hitched, her hips shifting restlessly beneath me, the movement dragging the tip of my cock against the slick seam of her sex.
The contact, every time, made her shiver, made me curse under my breath.
I squeezed her breasts together, molding them so I could take both nipples in my mouth, licking back and forth, savoring the taste and the helpless little sounds she made.
She tried to drag my head up, but I resisted, making her laugh and curse at the same time. I circled her nipple with my tongue, then finally sucked it into my mouth, letting my teeth graze just enough to make her squirm.
Her hands threaded into my hair, holding me to her chest, as she arched, pushing her flesh deeper in my mouth.
I was so hard I could barely think, but I made myself focus on her, on the way her body moved, the way her breath caught when I scraped my teeth along her skin.
I wanted her wild. I wanted her out of her mind.
I moved from one breast to the other, giving each the same attention, letting my hands roam everywhere—her waist, her hips, the curve of her ass as she rocked up to meet me. When I grazed her pussy with the back of my hand, she gasped, nails digging into my shoulders.
“Dean, please.”
She was completely uninhibited, rocking her hips up, grinding herself against me with a kind of greedy, joyful abandon that made heat spike up my spine.
She moaned, low and throaty, legs splayed wide, then hooked them around my waist and locked her ankles behind me.
The angle pressed the length of my shaft directly against her folds, sliding through wetness that coated me instantly.
The friction was almost too much. I rolled my hips, grinding against her, loving the feel of her slick and needy underneath me, the way her fingers dug into my back and held me there.
Her hand slipped between us, and she grabbed my steel-hard length, wrapping her fingers tight and guiding me to her entrance.
The move was bold and hungry, and it did something to me.
I braced on my forearms, pinning her with my gaze, and let her rub my head against her clit, teasing us both until she made a desperate, pleading noise and drew me down, burying me inside her in one long, slow push.
The air went out of her lungs, a sharp gasp and then a whimper, as her body clenched around me.
I didn’t move at first. Just hovered above her, feeling her flutter and squeeze, letting the sensation settle into my bones.
Her hands were everywhere—running up my arms, into my hair, dragging my mouth down to hers.
When we kissed this time, it was different.
There was no rush, no frantic “before someone catches us” energy.
She kissed me like she meant to memorize my taste, slow and deep, tongues tangling, her lips soft and a little bit swollen.
I could taste myself in her mouth, and it caused my cock to swell.
We moved together, slow at first. I pulled out a little, then slid back in, every inch of me aching with restraint.
She felt better than anything, heat and velvet and the perfect amount of resistance, like she wanted to keep me inside her forever.
Her hands explored my back, nails tracing gentle lines that sent shivers through me.
When I shifted my angle and thrust deeper, she gasped and arched up, breasts pressing against my chest. She peppered my shoulder with kisses, then nipped at my jaw, her mouth hot against my skin.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, “you feel so fucking good.” Her voice was raw, awed, like she hadn’t expected it to be this intense.
I fought to keep the pace measured, to drag it out, but the way her body responded, writhing beneath me, I could only hold out so long.
Every time I moved, her hips followed, matching my rhythm perfectly, meeting each thrust with her own.
We locked eyes, and neither of us looked away.
She licked her lips, cheeks flushed, hair wild around her face.
I watched her pupils blow wide, watched her lose herself, and it felt like falling, like I’d never hit bottom.
She came first. The first tremor started in her thighs, then built until her entire body was shaking.
Her teeth sank into the flesh of my shoulder as she stifled a scream as she let go.
Her pussy fluttered, milking me, and the sensation—wet, tight, relentless—dragged me right to the edge with her.
My jaw tensed as I buried my face in her neck, inhaling the smell of her skin and hair, willing myself to hold on just a little bit longer.
But then she tilted her pelvis up, locked her legs harder around me, and whispered, “Come for me, I want to feel you.” That was it, the end of me.
I thrust deep, once, twice, and then exploded.
The orgasm crashed through me, so fierce I had to squeeze my eyes shut, my whole body tensed as I emptied into her, every muscle shuddering.
We clung to each other—her arms around my neck, my hands braced on either side of her head—until the shaking stopped and my brain slowly rebooted.
After, I rolled onto my side, pulling her with me so we lay tangled together, her head nestled under my chin, my arms wrapped tight around her.
Her skin was damp with sweat, hair stuck to her forehead, but she looked more at peace than I’d ever seen her.
She pressed her lips to my chest, right over my heart, and let out a long, shaky sigh.
I traced lazy patterns along her back—shoulder blades, the dimples at her spine, the soft curve of her hip—even as I tried to catch my breath.
There was no talking for a while, just the sound of our breathing, the wind outside, and the warmth of the sheets cocooning us together.
She hooked her leg over mine and refused to let go.
Eventually, I could hear her heartbeat slowing, her body melting further into me. I brushed a kiss onto her scalp. “You okay?” I said, my voice a low rumble.
She snorted, a little laugh muffled against my chest. “Pretty sure I can’t feel my legs, so… yeah. More than okay.”
I grinned, let my hand drift down to her ass, and squeezed. “Not sorry.”
She looked up at me, eyes soft and unguarded, and smiled. Then she yawned, the kind of honest, wide-mouthed yawn, and nuzzled back into my neck. We lay like that for ages, drifting in and out of a half-sleep, limbs tangled, sheets a mess, the world outside the bedroom a thousand miles away.
I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to risk breaking whatever spell had settled over us. But at some point, I shifted, reaching for the water bottle on her nightstand, and she caught my wrist before I could get up.
“Stay,” she said, the word so soft I almost didn’t catch it. I looked down at her—hair wild, lips swollen, eyes still dazed—and knew I’d do whatever she asked.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I told her. And I meant it. I would’ve stayed there forever if she wanted.