22. Sinclair #2
Then I tuck a pillow under her head and slide down her body, mapping it with my mouth as I go.
A worshipful suck of her nipples. An awed kiss to her stomach.
Eating her in those stirrups was merciless and intense and fucking hot, but this feels sacred.
I lie between her legs, and we stare at each other.
I don’t break eye contact as I seek out her wetness and use my fingers to stretch it open for me.
She beseeches me with her eyes, and I grant her prayers with my mouth, licking a line upward until my tongue finds her clit, encircling it.
Jesus, this is good. The way she tastes is diabolical.
If I wasn’t the clear devil in this scenario, I’d think Satan had sent Elyse Ward to ruin me.
I push her legs wider and feast on her, sliding my tongue in and out of her before replacing it with a couple fingers and sampling her clit again.
My mouth is watering, and my heart is hammering, and my dick is jerking against the comforter.
I’m losing myself in her when her lovely little moans escalate into words.
“Come here.”
I look up. Her brown eyes are hooded, her face etched with need. “I’m very busy.”
A little laugh. “I’m close. I want to come with you inside me.”
“There’s no universe where you have to choose.” I give my fingers a leisurely twist to underscore that truth.
“I know, but—I want it.”
Well, that settles that. I’ve already conspired, in a dozen dubious ways, to put Elyse in my bed tonight. I’ve pulled every string. Tonight, the lady gets what she wants. I crawl back up the bed and kiss her again, cradling her face, letting her taste herself on me.
“Please tell me you have condoms,” she whispers against my mouth, and I hesitate.
Of course I have condoms. Legions of them.
But I wish for a second I was a different man, a man who could be okay with verbal declarations of birth control and clean bills of health.
A man who could take the next step without having to suffer the knowledge of what Machiavellian machinations would await any poor woman who got accidentally knocked up by a Voss.
But my cousin Charles set the precedent there.
I am not afforded that ignorance.
I am not a different man.
“Of course I do.” I kiss her once more before pushing myself up and reaching over to the nightstand drawer.
Condom secured, I kneel up. “I want you to know something,” I say as I rip off the foil and position it at my tip, pinching the end.
“Protection is a good idea. Very good. No matter what. But I want you to know that I’m not fucking anyone else right now.
I haven’t since our first time together, and I have no plans to.
I just wanted to say that,” I conclude lamely.
The significance of those red stamps at Alchemy aside, I really need her to be clear on the fact that the condom doesn’t mean I’m fucking around.
She stays silent, gaze flickering between my face and my dick. “Neither am I,” she says. “Obviously.”
Relief makes me gruff, not to mention the torment of touching my poor dick as I sheath myself. “Why ‘obviously’?”
She gives me a you can’t be serious look. “Why would I want to sleep with someone else when I’m sleeping with you? Come on.”
“My thoughts precisely,” I say, lowering myself back down. “About you, I mean,” I add as she laughs at my apparent ego.
I press my forehead to hers as I notch myself against her.
Without wanting to go full Madonna, it feels like the first time.
I’m as rigid with need and anticipation as if I’d never been inside Elyse before.
I thrust forward, and she yields with a gasp, and it’s so fucking snug that I might die.
Another press, her body undulating around me, her breasts brushing against my pecs as I sigh every iota of agonizing pleasure into her neck.
I reach down and hook behind her knee, pulling her leg up and pushing myself farther in as she shudders.
She has one hand in my hair, one tugging at my hip, which is as far down as she can reach.
More, her hands urge. More, her gasps whisper.
Fuck, missionary gets a bad rap. Having her submit to me like this, splayed out across my bed, is so fucking great.
I bottom out, head spinning, and take a moment to savor the infinite perfection of this moment.
My hand still under her knee, I hook her leg higher and let that feeling land between us.
She groans. “Oh my God, so good. Move, please.”
Like I said, what the lady wants…
I pull out and shunt forward, blackness already bleeding at the edge of my vision. “You think you can come in this position?” I grit out.
A pained laugh. “Believe me, you don’t need to worry about that.”
“Still close?”
“Yeah.”
“Show me.” I release her leg, shove an arm under her back, and flip us with ease. “Fucking ride me. Show me how close you are.”
She’s glued to my front, face buried in my neck, hair everywhere. Planting her palms to my chest, she pushes herself upright and, incidentally, further around my dick, which pulses deep inside her.
God. This is even better.
Finding her seat, as it were, she flicks her hair back off her face and gazes down at me. Now this is a look I like a lot: a triumphant warrior queen, about to demand her spoils of war and take no prisoners. Her eyes are glazed with desire, her face flushed.
“Show me,” I repeat.
“Fine.” She arches backward, clamping one hand to my thigh as the other finds my balls, and begins to move.
I watch in awe and delight and amazement because firstly, she even fucks like a ballerina—called it—and secondly, I can tell this isn’t some kind of porno rodeo performance.
Elyse isn’t like that. She’s not super experienced, and she’s definitely self-conscious in bed.
So I believe what I’m seeing is nothing more than her chasing her own pleasure.
While impaled on my dick.
Jesus fuck. I will not last long if she keeps fondling my nuts like that.
The sensation is so good that my eyelids want to drift closed, but not a chance.
No way am I missing a second of this. The sight of her, back arched and tits raised and my dick disappearing inside her body, is spellbinding.
Just spellbinding. Her cunt is stretched tight around me, that swollen clit of hers just visible.
I find it with my fingertip and play with it while gripping her hip with my free hand. I want her to ride me hard.
I grit my teeth as she goes for it, fantasies of slow lovemaking abandoned in favor of chasing this wild orgasm.
Every time she pushes down on me, I shunt upward with all my might.
Our eyes keep meeting in a Can you fucking believe this?
type way. She grows slick with sweat, as do I, my entire world shrinking to the twin, noble goals of making her go off like a rocket and letting myself go.
She fucks me and fucks me, her slim body writhing above me, milking my dick as if it’s her life’s work, while I lie here and try to survive as if I’m the hapless rider and she’s the untamed bronco.
And when I think I can take no more, the fluttering of her inner walls around me grows more insistent, her whimpers more anguished, her movements more desperate.
She grinds down against me one more time, and I work her soaking clit as much as I can.
Then she’s cursing and thrashing about as her climax sucks her in and wrings her out.
I dig my fingers even harder into her hip to hold her in place as I let rip, unleashing my own savage orgasm.
On and on it goes as I spill myself into the condom, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me.
Even before it’s fully subsided, I’m grabbing her shoulders and tugging her down and holding on to her for dear life, as if she, and only she, can save me from this onslaught.
Afterward, when we’ve caught our breath and I’ve tied off the condom and lobbed it somewhere into the distance and we’re a tangle of draped, exhausted limbs and breathlessness and speechlessness in general, I close my eyes against her skin and know that it’s safe to do so.
They’re shut, and I can still see her. She’s imprinted onto my mind’s eye, and it seems inconceivable that she’ll ever fail to be.
“Stay,” I say. I vaguely recall telling her she wouldn’t be required to sleep over when I was attempting to negotiate a paid arrangement, but this is now an actual date, and I’d be a madman to forgo the opportunity to keep her here as long as possible.
To sleep next to her and wake up to that reality of that face.
In the cradle of my arms, she sighs deeply. It’s a sign that communicates a whole world of burdens. “Shit. I can’t. I’d love to so much, but I have family… responsibilities.”
“Oh yeah?” I stroke her back. “All okay?” I’m digging—for information, but also for evidence that she’s not blowing me off. That she has real commitments.
“I mean, not really, but kind of? It’s fine, but I do need to get back.”
I hate that this bubble is about to burst, and I hate even more that I get to stay in my warm bed while she has to go out into the cold night like expended goods.
And in this moment I know, no matter how grotesque the burden of debt I owe to her is, that I am relieved beyond all measure that she refused payment for tonight.
Letting her slip away as if I’d gotten what I’d paid her for would be insupportable.
I’ll get dressed, and I’ll wrap her up warmly, and take her downstairs myself, and I’ll have my driver take her safely to her door once again.
That’s a given.
But it’s not enough.
It’s nowhere near enough.