Chapter 13 #2
“That’s it, Sour Patch, squeeze me so I feel how good you’d take me.
Naughty nanny, so damn tight around these fingers.
” He adds a third and stretches me wider, pumping into me, over and over, hand delivering my pleasure directly to the center of my body.
I clench around his fingers, so close. “Ohh! Oliver!” I full-on orgasm into his hand, and even though half my body’s water supply is now pooling down my thighs, I almost come again when he drags his fingers through it, as I rock my hips forward.
He rubs my arousal in slow, languid circles around my wanton clit, and it suddenly registers that he’s been holding me up by one arm this entire time.
“Arms like that aren’t fair.” I’m horny for this freakishly hard asshole all over again being in them.
He kisses my neck, his groans porn of their own that settle at the tips of my hardened nipples, and I can’t help but press my swollen pussy into his hand for more. Our foreheads touch when he lets out a steady exhale.
“You have been so fucking bad, Lem.” A chill travels down my spine when he says my nickname. Not Sour Patch, but the one my friends call me.
His erection presses tightly against his sweatpants. “You drive me mad, living in this house. I have ruined every pair of pants I own just breathing the same oxygen as you.”
“What does it say about me if I’m proud of that?”
Oliver shakes his head and presses a kiss to my nose. It’s intimate.
Too much like something real.
And I have to deflate it.
Remind him I’m just the slut in the nanny costume he thought I was. The bratty billionaire’s heiress he can’t possibly sate.
“Is that why you’re always sporting the crotch-huggers?”
He lowers me to the ground, a serious question in his glare, but I slide my hand between our bodies, driving the moment back to the physical so our emotions can stay the fuck away.
This is what we can be, my hand suggests as I wrap around his length. It doesn’t have to be forever.
My center pulses touching Oliver Nashville, and I’m not sure what this says about me, but the fact I can’t wrap my fingers around it seems to be the cause.
“Please tell me crotch huggers aren’t anything like casting couches,” he sucks in a breath when I stroke his shaft, “because I had to delete my search history on your father’s server, of all places.”
A laugh jumps from my throat at that image. Nash and his perfectly horrified face illuminated by a Perkins Global computer glow as some actress is railed by three dudes with shaky cameras.
I smile, stroking Oliver behind the Denali. As kinky as it is, it feels like our own little porn video. The nanny behind the car in the garage.
I used to think he had this thing to keep up with the Jones’s my father has working for him, but it seems to match the joystick for Nash, here.
Just fucking huge.
I think about Emily’s request to know if the curtains match the drapes and can’t help how eager I must look when I stare up at this beautifully broken man I’ve been handling and practically beg him to throw two sheets to the wind.
“Can I put this in my mouth, Oliver?”
His cock juts forward in my grip as I say his name.
“Oliver,” I tease again, stroking harder and longer, lowering to my knees—which is honestly a skill in rollerblades—and wrapping my lips around his leaking tip before I suck him down to the base.
I take him all the way in, tongue tracing ridges, spit spilling from my lips, and hollowed cheeks puckering as I suck him down.
His head hangs back, resting against the metal of the car as praises mix with his moans.
I maneuver my tongue out flat until I’m painting it with his cock.
I love every second of the sloppy mess I make between us, and it’s not even for him anymore.
This is me, take it or fucking leave it, Daddy.
I lift my eyes to his, still gagging on his length, slurping it up like it’s me on the casting couch.
He’s my director and I’m his actress, his sounds of pleasure my critique, as I find the exact rhythm and tempo that makes his hips pump and hands tighten on my head, my freshly fingered pussy dripping for more when he does.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Sour Patch. I’m gonna—”
“Knew you couldn’t last longer.” I tease the words around his cock, and he lets out an exasperated laugh, licking his bottom teeth, studying me as our eyes remain locked in challenge.
One last flick of my tongue across his swollen tip is all it takes before he finally gives in. I know it the moment his fingers thread my hair and tug.
Yes! This is the Nash I want.
The one who fucking feels something.
“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed about putting my cock in the back of this throat?”
His reckless abandon feels powerful. The growling, the face fucking, the loss of control.
This is what I do to him.
And I can’t help but spur him on even more, popping his swollen length from my mouth so the spit trickles down my chin. “I know how many men you’ve watched fuck it for you.”
“Brat.” He chuckles, growls? All I know is it’s raw, and it’s reckless, and it’s all the fuck for me. He lowers my head back down, slamming his cock into my mouth, full force, thick quads tightening around my neck with each thrust, and I’m here for it.
He’s seen what makes me come, and that thought has me even hornier, every goddamned second of his fingers tightening against my scalp and the taste of him on my tongue are fuel for my aching clit. I gag, opening my throat and allowing the space he needs to fill me. To take my mouth and make it his.
I only wish it were the rest of me he’d take.
Fuck!
What am I thinking?
This was supposed to be to fuck him out of my system, but my conversation with Katie forces its way to the front of my mind.
Something long term?
Fuck. That.
I swirl my tongue around his tip, taking back the control I’ve just lost and marveling at the pleasured sounds he makes as I stroke him with both hands, basting the underside of his shaft and balls with my spit until he tenses.
“Fuck, Lem.”
Lem.
His hands tighten in my hair, twisting through the start of his orgasm, and I’m there, mouth slabbing back over top of his length, sheathing my way down until my lips are flush to the hilt. My lips tremble as he pushes into my mouth one last time before I taste his explosion across my tongue.
I suck him clean, swallowing every bit of what just occurred like a crime to be covered, then I lick my lips and lift to my feet, steadying on my skates as my chest rises and falls in heavy waves.
“Lem,” he breathes, wild eyes still searching mine for answers I don’t have. Not the ones he wants anyway.
“Sour Patch,” I correct.
His lip quirks. “So, you do like your nickname.”
“I didn’t say that.” I twist my hair around my finger, skating around the Denali and eyeing the duffle bags and fishing gear he’s piled beside it.
What I don’t tell him is that he’s right.
I like my nickname. But even more so, I like my own name.
Especially the way it sounds falling from Oliver Nashville’s mouth. And that is a big no.
I don’t do forevers. I don’t do homewrecking.
And I certainly don’t do grumpy, widowed, millionaires my dad paid to keep me busy.
Only I just fucking did.
“You have a huge ding-a-ling.” I sigh, still unsure what to do about the colossal phallus I now want inside of me in every way. “For an old dude.”
Nash’s sapphire eyes meet his smile. “You know I’m not that much older than you.”
“That’s funny. You’re fifteen years older than me. You have a whole-ass child the same difference in age, just the opposite direction.”
“Don’t say that.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, but he knows how long he’s stared at me, doesn’t he?
I know how long he’s looked.
“Right,” he hisses at his already hardening cock, and he clears his throat, eyes scraping my body as he decides something he doesn’t make me privy to. I see it flash across his features before he shakes it away. “Well, I think we can agree that this was a one-time thing. We can’t do this again.”
“That’s fine,” I lie. “I don’t double dip.”
Truthfully, it’s not fine, and I don’t normally come back for seconds, but I would come back for thirds and fourths and seventeenths for this man. I would come undone for him. But what he needs is forever, and…
“I’m not a permanent person.”
He stares at me for a long time, until my phone buzzes, and he breaks away.
LIL’ DRUMMER BOY:
This tour sux without your pretty face.
I groan, typing and deleting words I’m not sure I should send. I decide the x in the word sucks annoys me more than anything else. Like, why sub a letter when all it does is shorten the word by one? It shows his age. I think that’s what bothers me most.
He’s sickeningly cute, and I hate every second of it, because I am not the obsessed fangirl he needs rushing to his side to inflate his ego. I don’t want a boy who needs me to stroke his growing feathers, I need the whole damn peacock. Preferably the aging silver one.
But Nash knows where I stand. He knows nothing would be serious between us.
And he just told me to keep my crotch away from him, right? Maybe this is the distraction we both need for me to continue with this obligation all summer.
But as hard as I try, I can’t hit send. It feels wrong to send Onyx texts when I’m still dripping from Nash, so I don’t.
It’s the first time I’ve left anyone on read.
I shove my phone in my skate holder and lift my eyes to Nash’s hardening stare just before he turns away. He sorts through bungee cables, avoiding my eyes.
“Why are you packing this stuff, anyway?” I trail over the tents and fishing gear.
His arms flex when he coils the cables, and the way he swings back around to meet my eyes and blows out a conceding breath…it has me. “Family camping trip. We go to the mountains every summer. Forage, hunt, cook.”
“I’m sorry, what? You go to the mountains with four children and survive off the land like that show on television?”