Chapter 20
LYSSA
I wanted Mike to break traffic laws to get us home faster, but he would never.
Home. I’d been in Aotearoa New Zealand a few weeks but already it was natural to think of his place this way.
Mike didn’t say anything as he drove but kept one hand curved over my thigh, passenger princess style. He held the door to his house open for me and I thought—hoped—he might jump my bones the second we were inside.
Instead he asked, “Your room or mine?”
“Yours.”
Kev had dropped me here after collecting me from the airport, and I’d torn through my biggest suitcase to find a perfect outfit for the fair. Consequently, my room looked like a tornado had ripped through Saks.
Mike took my hand and led me to his room.
I braced myself for the onslaught of color, but it still stopped me in my tracks.
Everything was yellow. The walls, the rug, even the wooden furniture and gold frames.
I knew such aggressive color blocking wasn’t his personal style, nor was the decidedly 1970s bent of his whole house, but I couldn’t waste mental spoons on it.
I was busy staring at the large king bed in the center of the room with a looming pine headboard.
It was intimidating.
This was the space of a man who had sex so much, he was known for it. Known fondly too—his reputation literally preceded him.
On one hand, this was reassuring. He knew what he was doing so it didn’t matter that I didn’t. On the other, I was literally doused in self-consciousness.
“After you.” Mike gestured to the bed.
I ignored the instruction, reaching for his belt loops and tugging him toward me. His eyes roamed my face. I didn’t know what he was looking for, but he either found it or gave up, because he swept me into his arms.
Thus commenced the ravishment of Lyssa Luxe.
Mike kissed me hungrily and I welcomed it. I’d missed him. He pushed his tongue into my mouth like it belonged there and there was no need to feign modesty I didn’t feel. I angled my head to meet each pass of his lips and probe of his tongue as his mo’ brushed my top lip.
He hadn’t called me baby or mate when I’d surprised him at the fair, or done any other posturing designed to keep me at a distance. This had led to an excited, hopeful feeling uncurling in my belly.
Not to mention the balloon thing. That was hands down the most thoughtful, loving thing anyone had ever done for me. So he had to like me for real. At least a little bit. He’d seen me at my most high-strung, my most selfish, and had still bought me balloons. That meant something, I knew it did.
His hands slid over my hips before taking fistfuls of my ass and squeezing.
I wrapped my arms tighter around his neck and shamelessly ground my body into his.
He was so big and cuddly—to be embraced by Mike was to be enveloped by his warmth, his burliness, and right now, his hardness.
His cock throbbed against the crook of my leg as it thickened, forcing space between our bodies.
When I whimpered, Mike pulled my leg up over his hip and the press of his cock to the junction of my legs made my breath hitch.
With each press of our lips, I made a plea: a plea for more, a plea for him to stop holding back.
Mike wasn’t known for his restraint. He said he wanted me, and I was ready to know exactly what it meant when Mike Holliday wanted you.
He gripped my hips and tugged me into him with a low grunt before using that same grip to push me back, forcing space between us.
I whined.
“Clothes,” he breathed, cheeks uncharacteristically flushed.
“Go ahead,” I gestured.
I meant for him to strip. Instead, he reached for the buttons on my waistcoat. I dressed for impact, not convenience, so undressing me took a while. When I finally stood in my lace bra and frilly panties, Mike made quick work of his row of buttons.
As he unbuckled his belt and popped his jeans, my thick swallow made him grin.
I couldn’t stand there patiently when there was something I wanted badly right in front of me.
I batted his hands away and pushed his shirt off his shoulders myself.
Mike’s husky frame was incredibly sexy. So strong, so fucking big and protective and mouth-watering.
Loser men on the internet always thought women only wanted guys built like dehydrated bodybuilders, but they were as wrong as they were bitter. Mike was sexy as hell.
Greedily, I ran my hands over his shoulders and torso, letting my nails rake over him. He shivered and I slid my hands into his jeans and squeezed his ass over his briefs.
“Easy girl,” he said, pulling away with a wince. I was offended until I saw him adjust the front of his jeans. “Just give me a second, or I’ll shoot like a geyser. You lie back.”
He gestured to his two flat pillows.
I looked from the yellow pillowcases to him, confused. How was I supposed to prop myself up with those pancakes? What did his other sex guests do? Did they roll them like a hotel towel? Or just toss them away? Nothing said bachelor like flat pillows.
It wasn’t specifically the pillows that gave me pause (although their buttercream yellow was all wrong for Mike, he needed deep greens and oaky accents) it was that laying back so a man could climb over me and rut had never brought me satisfaction.
I was resolved to never again fake an orgasm, but I didn’t want to be a woefully lackluster lay compared to Mike’s other guests in this room.
I tried to hide my sudden apprehension, but he noticed.
“Do you trust me, Lyssa?”
It was what he’d asked me before he dunked me in his bathtub.
My answer hadn’t changed.
“Yes.”
He nodded and uncapped his water bottle before adjusting it so that it was within easy reach from the bed.
Why? Did he produce an exceptional amount of semen?
Enough to dehydrate him? Enough that he wouldn’t have the wherewithal to uncap his drink afterward?
Would I have to fetch him electrolytes? If there weren’t any in the house, I would have to walk into town, which was a ten-minute walk?—
“What are you thinking about?”
“Electrolytes. Also, I’m worried I won’t be able to come again,” I confessed in a rush. “You’ll act fine with it, and you’ll say the right things, but you’ll be disappointed.”
“You don’t have to come, Lyssa.”
“Yes, that’s the right thing to say.”
“It’s true.”
“But I want to come. That’s the whole thing.”
“If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t…?.” He picked up my hand and pressed it to his chest. “I promise, you’re still going to have the best fucking time you’ve ever had without your clothes on. That’s the Mike Holliday guarantee, baby.”
I stepped backwards and tumbled down onto the bed. His eyes tracked the bounce of my tits hungrily.
“I don’t want the Mike Holliday guarantee, and don’t call me baby.”
He studied me, chewing his lip. I was worried he had changed his mind, but abruptly, he seemed to come to a decision.
He ditched his jeans and briefs and crawled over top of me.
His weight over me was delicious, even when he carefully held himself on his elbows.
But I didn’t want careful. I wanted him to body me into this mattress.
That was my problem: I veered between wildly horny and anxious to the point of distraction. I felt bad for Mike. I was a rollercoaster.
He didn’t seem to be feeling bad though. He kissed me leisurely, ignoring my pathetic little tugs to get more of his weight on me. The press of his thick, ready cock was impossible to ignore, yet he seemed determined to do so, kissing me slowly, like we were teenagers under some bleachers.
Cocks were kind of ridiculous though. Thick, turgid, winking worms—in a good way?
Sometimes. And sometimes no. Like how worms served an ecological purpose—cocks served an erectional purpose?
Only if you liked cocks though, and the specific one winking at you at the time.
Which I did, I liked Mike’s cock, but now I was worried that thinking of it as a turgid worm was an association that would cement in my head and forever repulse me?—
“Where’d you go this time, Princess?” Mike asked between kisses.
“Winking worms.”
At that, the kissing stopped. Who could blame him?
“What?”
“Cocks.”
His lips against the soft skin under my clavicle stretched, and I felt his laughter before he could fully muffle it with another kiss.
I tensed. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not,” he said, doing exactly that.
Laughing at me because I was ridiculous, I was eccentric, I was the furthest thing from sexy and too much bana —a sharp twist of my nipple jolted me.
“Ow!”
Mike’s mouth latched around the sore peak, his tongue soothing the sting. “Come on, Princess. Winking worms was funny. It surprised me. You’d laugh if I said that.”
That was true. As he dropped kisses down my neck, I thought about our first time. “Maybe you should choke me? Maybe I can only orgasm when you’re choking me. Maybe that’s my kink.”
Mike pushed up on his arms and stared at me. I looked from his left pupil to his right, trying to figure out what the fuck he was studying me for, what he was wanting to see.
Then he pressed a soft kiss to my lips. “I don’t know if you have a choking kink, Princess. Maybe you do. Or maybe you just need surprise and a lot of stimulation to keep you in the moment.”
As he spoke the words, something between the cavity of my chest and my gut recognized the truth of it.
“Yes! That’s what I want. I trust you, and I’ll stop you if I need to.”
Mike pushed to his feet, naked, and pulled his bottom drawer open. This distracted me from staring at his winking worm—I had to stop calling it that—as I tried to see the contents of the drawer. But he waggled a finger at me, teasingly.
“The rest isn’t for beginners,” he said, which was madly intriguing. Then he laid out the things he had selected and turned to me. “Thoughts?”