Chapter 29 #2
I take her hand and lead her back into the house, straight to the office.
When we get inside, I take a seat in my chair—the same chair I saw her naked in earlier, pale, freckled thighs spread—and tell her to kneel.
I pull out my pocket watch and set it on my desk as she does.
I can see her ribs under her tank top moving with heavy, nervy breaths and her palms rubbing against her thighs.
“Don’t worry,” I say as I unzip myself. “Bad girls are usually very good at this.”
Her eyes drop nervously to my lap as I expose the dick that’s been waiting for her all day. She’s seen it plenty in the last seven days, of course—I don’t give her much of a break when I’m home—but I suppose anything new comes with a fresh wave of apprehension.
I press my thumb to the back of my erection and push it forward, wanting it closer to her mouth and also wanting to show off a little. I’m rewarded with a nibble on her bottom lip as she takes it in. The thickness and the length and the proud cap at the top, already glistening around the slit.
“This is the longest I’ve given you to look at it, isn’t that right?” I ask kindly. “You can touch it if you want. I won’t make you start sucking me right away.”
Her eyes flash up to my face, an incredible mixture of terror and curiosity, and then she drops her stare back to my lap. A slender hand lifts and then she draws a soft line up the shaft. It jerks at her touch; underneath, my scrotum pulls tight in response.
Around the head too, she draws a soft, charting circumference, her fingertip finding every swoop and curve until she returns to the textured delta in the middle.
With an artist’s eye, she runs her fingertips over the veins, presses on them, testing how they spring back when she lifts her fingers.
She presses a thumb against the narrow opening at the top, which makes me hiss, but when she sees that I’m not angry or in pain, she does it again, brows knitted together.
When she lifts her thumb to see the pad of it slick with pre-cum, she studies it in the light and then licks it off.
I barely recognize the noise I make then, something primitive and desperate. “Enough playing now.” The words come out hoarse. I push my cock closer to her. “Use your mouth.”
She licks her lower lip and takes a deep breath. She puts both hands on my thighs, which tense under her touch. “I still don’t know what to do,” she whispers.
“You can’t do anything wrong right now. I promise.”
“Okay,” she exhales, and she leans forward.
The point of her tongue, wet and warm, moves from root to tip in one unending stripe, and I shudder, my head dropping back against the chair, my eyes closing as she puts her tongue to a vein and follows its meandering path over the skin to the taut crown, where she laps almost daintily at the fluid coming out.
“Christ, Birdie,” I groan, my hand sliding up into her messy bun and guiding her to do the same thing on the other side. “You’re killing me.”
No one would believe it, the infamous Ryan Bell laid low by such amateur attention, but if they were here right now, they’d fucking understand.
That diligent tongue, licking and swirling, those diffident eyes flitting up to my face.
The deep breath of courage before she leans forward and puts the entire tip into her mouth and the way the tops of her cheeks are still so round and rosy while the sides of them go concave and she sucks.
It’s tentative and timid and also so sweetly determined, and she’s so good, so perfect, everything I’ve been dreaming of since I first learned about her and knew I needed to have her.
My sick, obsessive mind hungrily catalogs every detail of this, every little thing about her on her knees between my planted feet, every sensation of her experimenting with suction and stimulation.
Everything about her—the burnished copper curls spilling over my fingers, the deep rose-pink of her lips, the lithe lines of muscle in her arms and shoulders.
And in the brighter, harsher light of my office, I can see those rare threads of silver at the top of her head.
I can see the faint creases at the corners of her closed eyes.
I know it’s barbaric and disgusting, but I love that her first blow job is me. That everything, after all her years of waiting: her first kiss, her first orgasm, first time giving herself an orgasm—me, me, me.
She’s so beautiful and she’s so perfect, and I’m going to take such good care of her.
“Birdie, I’m going to push your head down now. Breathe through your nose.”
My hand is trembling slightly with the restraint it takes to push slowly, to only push a little, and then I’m about halfway in her mouth.
Halfway and I can feel every cord in my neck stiffening, every muscle in my stomach tensing as she moves her mouth up to the tip and then back to where she was.
Pleasure bolts through me, an arc of lightning catching fire at the base of my spine, and I start chasing her mouth, holding her head with the hand still in her curls, working myself in and out in short, careful thrusts.
“Bad girls take it in the mouth,” I breathe, using the thumb of my free hand to trace her lips where they’re stretched around me. “Bad girls swallow it all. Every drop. Every drop and you’ll be forgiven.”
Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, which I take to be assent, and then it doesn’t matter because I’m coming, the orgasm churning its way out of me with enough force that I’m grunting through it, panting through it, unloading into her hot mouth like I haven’t ejaculated in years and I’ve been saving it all for this very moment.
She does amazing, my meek little genius, swallowing like I told her to, letting me use her mouth through the very last wave and then licking me clean. I let go of her hair and lean forward to drag her up in my lap.
She squeaks in surprise but there’s a small dimple in her cheek and a soft happiness to her mouth when she gets settled.
And then, with my dick still out refusing to soften, I tell her everything I wanted to tell her in the studio.
That I’m grateful she’s persevered enough to do the things I’ve asked her to do, that she pleases me so much, that it gets me so fucking hot when she lets me bully her into such obscenities.
I reach behind her and grab my pocket watch. And then I laugh.
“What is it?” she asks.
I smile at her. “I’ve only been sitting in this chair for about six minutes.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” I say, kissing her clavicle, “when it comes to Birdie Cooper and blow jobs, I’ll need practice too. If I want to last longer than a sailor on shore leave.”
“Well, you have eleven and a half months for all the practice you want.” She has one hand pressed to my chest and her other toying with my hair.
Her eyes are fond and her voice is fond too…
I don’t think she’s trying to hurt me or protect herself with the reminder of our time-limited arrangement.
More like she assumes I see the end of our deal as such a natural, nonnegotiable fact that it’s utterly emotionless for me.
And why wouldn’t she? I’ve given her no reason to think otherwise.
Fuck.
“Come to family dinner with me tomorrow.” It comes out like a demand, not really at all how an invitation should sound, but I don’t care.
I need…I need her to come. I need to see her surrounded by my family, being fussed over and fed and climbed on by nieces and nephews and given useless advice from my dad.
I need to forget for a night that this could all fall apart when summer comes again.
She looks away. “Bell…”
I tense underneath her, and she corrects herself.
“Ry. That’s your family time, and I don’t want to intrude.”
“You won’t be intruding.”
A weak smile. “I’m your…what? Mistress? Escort? I’m not meant to be at family dinners.”
“Can you be my girlfriend?” I don’t know why my heart is pounding like this.
She can’t really be my girlfriend, not until this deal is over and she’s with me because she wants to be, but I’m desperate to know the answer to the question, to see if she blanches at the idea of being something real and lasting and loved.
She doesn’t blanch. But something sad moves into her face when she says, “Of course I can pretend to be your girlfriend.”
“It’s not pretend to me,” I tell her. “Just…part of.”
Her fingers are still playing in my curls, fingering the ends, lightly scratching along my scalp. She doesn’t answer, and I don’t make her, instead kissing her neck until she’s putty in my hands.
Then I lay her on my desk, work off her jeans and panties, and tongue her until she shakes and moans my name.
“I’ll make dinner,” I say as we finally redress and set aside sex for a while. “If you want to work a little more while I cook.”
“I do,” she murmurs. And then she finds my hand and squeezes it once, very quickly. A rare initiation. “Thank you for inviting me to your family dinner. I’m grateful to be included.”
I have so many things I want to say, confessions I want to make—not about sins I regret but the sins I will commit to keep her right here forever—but I don’t think we’re there yet. I squeeze her hand back and then go to the kitchen as she goes to the studio door.
“Do you hear that?” she asks.
“Hear what?” I ask, already opening the fridge.
She opens the door, and we’re confronted at once with an aria of tiny, indignant wails. A kitten, jet black with a pipe-cleaner tail and bright green eyes, has found itself on top of the unrepentant criminal’s head.
It looks at us both and then meows hysterically as if to say, What took you so long?