Chapter Eleven #2
“I know,” I shot back, tilting my head playfully.
He made his way to me and found my lips again with much less control this time.
With his hands securely around my waist, he sank into the couch and guided me to sit on his lap.
My earlier fear dissipated when I realized that this was just how he dealt with feeling hurt.
I wanted to make him feel better and to see his dimples come out again.
The power to do so rushed through me, and I sank into the moment.
He tugged gently at the banded top of my dress until he was squeezing my breasts, making me stifle a gasp.
“You have perfect little tits, Vanessa. Have I told you that?” he murmured in my ear, making a blush climb up my neck and heat sink down into my belly.
“No,” I breathed, not sure how to flirt back with that question. Or in this position. I was out of my depth with him.
“Well, they are…” he began before dropping his mouth to my chest and swirling his tongue around my nipple. “Perfect,” he finished, switching to the other side.
I tried to resist the urge to squirm in his lap. It felt good , just a lot. His hand dropped to the crease of my thighs and he held me in place while pressing his hard length up into me. This time, I did gasp out loud, and his blue eyes widened with amusement.
“Get on your knees for me, baby,” he nearly whispered, already nudging me off of his lap. I clumsily slid down to the ground and started to pull up my dress. “No, no, I want those out,” he said, his tone commanding.
“Won’t…won’t people be getting here soon?” I breathed, hoping I sounded like I was genuinely curious instead of freaking the fuck out because I’d only given head twice in my life.
“I guess you’ll have to do a good job, then,” he replied, grinning and unbuttoning his pants before pulling out his cock. “God I’ve been thinking about this since I saw you suck on that fucking straw.”
I tried to swallow my nerves without making an embarrassing gulping sound, and I sat up on my knees, gripping him with one hand and dragging my tongue up the underside of his dick tentatively. He made a vaguely satisfied sound in his throat, so I did it again, slower but more confidently.
“Your tongue feels amazing, but I wanna know what your throat feels like.” His gaze had me frozen in place. “Open up and relax. Tongue out,” he said in a soothing voice.
I did as he asked but flinched when he pushed my head down firmly until his dick was at the back of my throat.
I pushed back on his knees and made a humiliating gagging sound.
He pulled back and I sucked in a breath before he thrust into my mouth again, though this time I was slightly more prepared.
He held my head and worked himself in and out of my mouth, his breathing coming in shorter and shorter huffs.
I figured out how to breathe in the same rhythm, and I willed the tears in my eyes from my repeated gag reflex not to ruin my eye makeup.
“Fuuuuuck you are going to make me come,” he ground out just as the doorbell rang.
Zack showed no signs of slowing. If anything, he sped up. The doorbell rang again, and my heart was threatening to beat out of my chest. At the third ring of the bell, I moved to push away from him just as a groan emanated from deep in his chest and he spilled into my mouth.
Before I could even move to get to the bathroom, Zack’s grip tightened on my jaw and tilted my face up toward his.
“Swallow, baby.”
My chest constricted and my throat worked automatically before my brain could even process what I was doing. The feeling was foreign and overwhelming, but his approving smile made me feel like I’d passed some test I didn’t know I was taking.
“Perfect. You’re perfect,” He murmured, leaning over and pressing a kiss to my forehead, my cheek, my neck before quickly righting his pants and jogging up the stairs to the door.
Everything went from soft-focus to razor-sharp clarity—the sound of footsteps on the front porch, the taste still coating my throat, the realization that I was half-dressed in his parents’ basement while his friends arrived upstairs.
I rushed to the bathroom and locked the door, the click echoing in the small space.
My legs felt unsteady as I gripped the marble countertop, taking deep breaths that did little to slow the adrenaline flooding my system.
The bathroom was pristine—white subway tile, expensive-looking fixtures, but I couldn’t even appreciate the details.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror and cursed inwardly.
I saw smudged mascara, swollen lips, and disheveled hair, none of which was a good look.
My hands shook as I turned on the faucet, the cold water a shock against my heated skin.
I cupped it in my palms and rinsed my mouth twice, but the taste of him still lingered, metallic and bitter on my tongue.
Is that what giving head is supposed to be like? Because I’ve been doing it wrong, then.
The light above the mirror was too bright, making every flaw visible.
I could hear the muffled voices upstairs of his friends arriving, normal conversation, laughter.
The sound felt out of place after what had just happened.
There was this unsettling mix of emotions swimming in my stomach that I couldn’t quite name.
Maybe you are really that inexperienced .
I managed to transform my ruined eye makeup into something that looked like a smokey-eye that I did on purpose, and my hair was thankfully easy to tame. I looked presentable, so I just needed my hands to be still.
Deep breaths. Go meet his friends and be fucking normal .