Chapter Six
Beau
“Holy shit,” I mutter as I lead Cyndi’s face up and down my cock by the hair. My feet widen, giving room to my balls as she tugs at them. She’s crouched over my groin like a cock gremlin, and I’m not the least bit turned off by that unbidden thought. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
I’ve gotten blowjobs before, but never like this, never with her full weight thrown into gobbling down my long length.
Never without spluttering coughs, where she pulled off and gave a half-hearted apology, then I felt bad for thrusting too hard or pressing down or whatever instinctual movement I made.
I thrust up, and Cyndi meets my movement, her teeth skimming my groin as her throat massages me.
I see stars. Like a cartoon rabbit who just got hit over the head with an anvil. I toss my head back, shaking my hair out of my eyes, ready to fucking blow—
“Nn, nnh, nnh,” she tsks gutturally, pulling off my erection before I can fill her pretty mouth.
I try to sit up, to focus, but before I can move, she’s up and swinging a leg over my torso.
I wanted her to ride me, but I wasn’t expecting the fat ass I got in my face.
I can’t keep my hands off it. I grab the firm cheeks and shake them, pulling them apart to see that tiny hole she let me fuck just twenty-four hours ago.
I’m in a horny haze because I don’t notice at first that she’s sitting up or that she’s rolling a condom down my dick. All I see is the sexy curve of her hips, the shiny spill of hair down her back that ripples and catches moonlight.
Am I in love with a sex worker? Oh, fuck, how am I gonna tell Marcus? He’s never gonna let me live this down. He’s gonna play that In Love with a Stripper song at our wedding, for sure.
Yes, baby, straddle that dick. That’s your dick, my brain mutters.
Cyndi lifts her ass and has to use both hands to steady my jerking cock.
She’s moaning, making all kinds of slutty little sounds.
Then, glorious wet skin surrounds me. Her slit is so fucking tight it strains to fit me.
Good girl, I don’t care how many cocks you’ve fucked before; this big one is your last.
I’ve lost my damn mind. I know it.
I grab her waist and propel her down, impaling her.
We both shout out, and I think I’m crying.
Both times her pussy has brought me to tears.
Her skin is smooth and tan, a hot-as-sin juxtaposition against my hairy, ruddy body.
I shove her forward, buried deep, pulsing my ass.
She arches her back, gifting me with another view of her pinched asshole.
I can’t take my eyes off it. She grabs my ankles, her knees slide out, and suddenly she lifts that ass and bounces it on me like a dribbling ball.
“What the fuck?” I mutter as she slides up one bent leg; she’s taking a fucking knee the way we do during a huddle before a game, and she’s raising and dropping her ass.
Again and again. Oh, fuck, I can’t breathe; I can’t take my eyes off her.
She’s riding my cock like she would a bucking bronco, her nails digging into my skin, her huffing moans high and sweet and making me just as horny as her snug hole. “Oh, shit!”
In desperation, I reach up and grab her tits from behind.
They’re small and fit perfectly in my calloused palms, jigsaw pieces slotted together.
Cock and pussy. Palm and tit. It can’t always be like this, can it?
I rub her nipples; the sensation of them growing even tighter sends waves of pleasure up my spine. My balls constrict. I’m gonna cum.
I squeeze one tit hard, then slap her jiggling ass. She gasps, and her movements stutter, so I spank her again; each upswing of her hips I slap, and her cunt tightens, fluttering around me. Yes, gimme that orgasm, girl. I slap her harder, and she fucking whines for it, her ass swiveling.
The tables have turned; I’m still on the precipice, but Cyndi is the one who falls first. She lets out a low keen, and suddenly her pussy drenches me. She attempts to keep fucking, but I have a sudden urge to flip her little ass.
“Oh!” she whimpers when I lift her and drop her to her back.
I’m on her in seconds, and a handful of rapid pumps later, I’m spilling.
My dick throbs and my unfocused eyes rove over her thrashing face.
A flicker of something. Familiarity? Sure, I mean, I fucked her last night. Of course she’s familiar.
“I need to see you again,” I murmur, latching my lips to her jawline, kissing down. I blanket her shuddering body and don’t pull out, enjoying the aftershocks of her climax. “This won’t be the last time.”
Her hands tentatively settle on my back. They are soft and warm, cupping my lats. My skin twitches as if her fingertips were electrified. I lift my head. I need to see her face. She turns as if in synchronicity with me. Can she read my mind? Surely she feels the same connection I do.
“You’ll need to email Trini about setting up another date,” she murmurs in a husky tone. I can see her plump lips pressing together, the straight line of her nose—something at the base of my skull tingles.
She strokes my skin lightly, her touch belying her practical words. I suck sharply at her skin, and she squeaks. Good. She’s human.
“We’ll see about that,” I mutter, nibbling at the crease of her neck until she stifles a giggle. Ticklish. I’m learning more about her every moment. Carnally at least. “Do you know who I am?”
She pauses, then wriggles under me, Kegel flexes forcing my sluggish condom-wrapped penis out of her body. I don’t know how she manages to keep her face averted, but short of grabbing her shoulders and pinching her chin until she stares up at me, there’s nothing to do. “Beau Bradley.”
My name on her pink lips sends a shot of energy to my groin, and I snap my gaze to her. Blood is rushing to my dick, but she’s standing lightly, that long mane of hair swinging like a pendulum above her heart-shaped ass.
She pulls a pair of sweats over that work of art, and I almost growl.
“Stay,” I grit out.
“No.” She’s got a sweatshirt on now. She looks all comfy and sweet.
Damn. I want to pull her into my arms on a big ass couch and watch TV with her.
I want to ask her what her last name is.
Is she from Seattle or a transplant? How did she get into sex work?
I’m suddenly fascinated with getting to know everything about her.
I haven’t felt this way since Gracyn moved next door.
Gracyn.
Cyndi is walking away, phone in hand. She’s going to leave. She blew my cock and my mind, and now she’s walking away? Albeit with a slight limp.
“Cyn!” I call out loudly, startling her into glancing back at me. She’s halfway to the hotel room door, and her shoulders jerk, her head twists, green eyes catch mine, then swiftly turn away. I jolt upright; two defibrillators to my chest couldn’t have shaken me more.
“Cyndi. My name’s Cyndi.”
“That’s what I said.” Her voice. That voice. Something tugs at me.
She’s out the door, and I’m pulling on my clothes.
This time I don’t stop as I see the elevator doors close.
It can’t be her. But those eyes. Olive green and sad.
Maybe it was a trick of the city lights—a trick of my mind’s wishful thinking.
There was no brown patch like the one in Gracyn’s eyes.
Her skin is a similar tone. Her hair is dyed.
Her lips look fuller. Same with her ass.
But it’s been years. She wouldn’t look like the skinny little high-schooler she was the last time I saw her.
Another elevator arrives just seconds after Cyndi’s, and I make it to the lobby just in time to see her bright blue sweatsuit walk out of the hotel. I’m after her in a flash, keeping my distance as she speed-walks downhill.
It’s dark, and she has no protection. I want to shout at her to keep her head on a swivel. I want to throw my big arm around her shoulders and let any man in any dark alley she passes know that she’s protected.
I don’t have time to think deeply about my insane suspicion that I recognize the girl I paid to fuck.
Gracyn Moreno. Selling her body after being abused by her stepfather.
The thought makes my heart split, and a fuzzy feeling grows behind my nose.
Nope. I won’t dwell on that. Not now. Not here.
Not until I know what the fuck I’m dealing with.
Cyndi walks up to a tall condominium building and pulls open the front doors. There’s no buzzer or keycard. I wait a safe amount of time, then step into the lobby after her. I watch the numbers above the elevator change. 15. 16. 17. It stops.
I lean against the bank of mailboxes, still as a statue for I don’t know how long.
Then I pull out my phone and text Fenwick the name of the building.
I want a unit on the 17th floor. Yesterday.