Dont Ask Me Twice #2
He looks up at me then, fingers still moving, and his expression stops me completely. Not just the hunger—I expected the hunger. The wonder. Like he’s been running toward this moment and can’t quite believe he’s arrived.
I reach down and touch his face.
He turns his head and presses his lips to my palm.
Then he withdraws his fingers, kisses his way down my stomach with slow, deliberate intent, and settles between my thighs.
He’s mapping me. That’s what it feels like—his mouth moving like he’s memorizing geography, like he has time now and intends to use every second of it.
When he finally puts his mouth on me, the sound he makes vibrates through my entire body.
“Fuck, you taste good,” he rasps. “Sweet and warm and—” He groans again, like he can’t help it. “Been wanting this for so long.”
Then he stops holding back.
His mouth closes over my clit, sucking and licking with filthy, dedicated focus. Two thick fingers slide back inside, curling perfectly while he devours me like a man who has been starving and has finally, finally been given permission to eat.
“Ride my face,” he growls against me. “I want to feel you. Use me.”
I thread my fingers through his hair, hips rolling against his mouth as the pleasure builds in hot, pulsing waves. He doesn’t let up—sucking my clit, working his fingers deeper, making sounds against me that are as obscene as they are devastating.
“So wet,” he murmurs between long licks. “So perfect. I’m never coming up for air.”
He flattens his tongue, licking me in broad, slow strokes before zeroing in again, sucking hard while his fingers thrust faster. My thighs start to shake around his head. I’m close, so close, and he knows it the way he seems to know everything about me.
“Come on my tongue, baby,” he growls. “I’ve earned this. Give it to me.”
The orgasm crashes into me. I cry out his name, thighs clamping around his shoulders as I come apart on his face. He moans like he’s the one falling apart, licking me through every pulse and aftershock, refusing to pull away until I’m trembling and oversensitive and pushing weakly at his head.
When he finally lifts up, lips shiny, eyes blazing with equal parts satisfaction and devotion, I feel the full weight of what just happened settle over the room.
He looks at me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.
When he stands and strips off the rest of his clothes, I forget how to breathe.
Hockey has carved him into a shape that shouldn’t be real. Broad shoulders, thick chest, arms corded with muscle from years of doing violent things to other men’s bodies for sport. His abs flex as he shoves his jeans and boxer briefs down in one motion, and then I see all of him.
Oh.
Oh.
His cock is thick and heavy, flushed dark, already leaking at the tip—bigger than I expected, even after feeling him grinding against me, and I’ve been thinking about that for longer than I care to admit. The sight makes my core clench with a need so sharp it’s almost embarrassing.
“Jesus, Bennett,” I breathe, unable to stop staring. Because I’m not stopping. I’ve waited a long time for this view, and I’m taking every second of it. “You’ve been hiding that under your gear this whole time?”
His expression shifts. Satisfaction, heat, and underneath both of them—pleasure. Like being wanted by me specifically means more than he’s saying.
It should. It does.
He reaches for his wallet without looking away from me, tears the condom open, and rolls it down with steady hands. Comes back to me like there was never any question of where he was going.
He settles between my thighs, the blunt heat of him nudging against my entrance.
And then he stops.
Bennett braces one hand beside my head and looks down at me. He’s stripped down to an expression I’ve never seen on his face before, one that would have been invisible behind his walls six weeks ago.
“This is real,” he says. Not a question.
“This is real,” I confirm.
Then he pushes inside me slowly, inch by devastating inch, and we both go completely still.
“Gisele.” My name in his mouth, wrecked and wondering. His forehead drops to mine. “You feel—”
“I know,” I whisper.
Neither of us moves for a long moment. Just breathes. Just feels the reality of finally settling into our bones.
Then I shift my hips, and everything changes.
He moves with slow, rolling purpose at first—like he’s still learning me even now. One hand slides between us, finding my clit, and the dual sensation pulls a broken sound out of me that I don’t bother to contain.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
The pace builds—his hips driving harder, deeper, fingers moving in tight devastating circles on my clit—and he talks to me the whole time, low and filthy and focused, like he can’t stop.
“That’s it, baby. Take me. You feel so fucking good. So perfect. I’m never going to get enough of you. Never.”
The pressure coils tighter. My nails find his back.
“Come on, Gisele.” He says my name, not baby, not you—my name, like I’m the only person who has ever existed, like he’s been saving it for this exact moment. His fingers move faster. “Let me feel you.”
That’s what pushes me over.
The orgasm hits me in waves so intense my vision whites at the edges. I cry out his name as my walls clench around him, and he follows immediately—burying himself deep with a low, guttural groan, his whole body shuddering with the force of it, his face pressed against my neck.
We lie tangled together afterward, breathing hard, hearts hammering.
He doesn’t pull away. Just stays draped over me, pressing slow kisses to my jaw, my temple, the corner of my mouth. His hand moves up and down my side in long, lazy strokes.
Eventually, I feel him take a long breath.
“I’ve never felt anything like that,” he says quietly. He pulls back enough to look at me, and his eyes are completely unguarded. “I’m never going to recover from you.”
“Good,” I manage. “I don’t want you to.”
He shifts, pulling me into his side so my head is on his chest. I trace patterns on his stomach and listen to his heartbeat gradually slow.
It’s quiet for a long time.
Then, so softly I almost miss it:
“Mine.”
Not possessive. Not triumphant. Just a man finally saying a word he’s been afraid to say, releasing it into the quiet of a room where only I can hear it.
“Yeah,” I say into his chest. “Yours.”
I can work with that.