33. 33
Max’s mouth… his tongue, fingers… They’re everywhere. Stroking, slipping inside me… his tongue.
His tongue.
The first time a man went down on me, I was sixteen in the back seat of a car. He had been my boyfriend for all of six weeks; both too scared of pregnancy, we hadn’t had sex, but he liked it when I gave him a blow job, which I’d done several times. One night while we were kissing goodnight and felt his hand probing under my skirt, I suggested there might be other ways for him to give me pleasure.
When I came—so very quickly even with his clumsy attentions—he told me I was too loud. “Did you fake?” he demands. “You must have faked because you sound like you’re in a porn movie.”
The second time was when I was nineteen, and one of my clients at the club asked for a private dance in the back room. Halfway through, he demanded more, and when I refused and tried to leave, he pushed me down, threw me across the back of the chair, and stuck his tongue in my pussy.
The third time, it was a woman because a man wanted to see us together.
These aren’t going through my head as Max slides through my wetness, but I’d be lying if my knees weren’t shaking. Oral sex has never been my thing.
But it’s never felt like this.
My hand fists in the fabric of my dress bunched at my waist. Max’s mouth, his fingers… he wants this. He wants to touch me. To taste me.
I know, because he’s telling me.
“You taste so good,” he mutters, his tongue dipping in leisurely strokes along my cleft.
I stare up at the stars twinkling over the water. This is for me. Max is here for me.
“I couldn’t wait to touch you,” he whispers, his warm hand splayed along my hip, trying to cover more skin as his mouth—
His mouth…
My hips roll up, into, and my hands find strong shoulders, his head with the shaggy curls bent into me. The softness of his beard against my inner thighs.
“I want to hear you,” he demands as his mouth urges, demands, takes.
He steals my breath.
My hand search for contact, to hang on as the sensations rising, flooding every inch of me. Fingers sink into his curls, my pants turning to whimpers. I bite my lips to keep from moaning aloud because…
“I want to hear you come, Cady.”
The use of my name almost pushes me over the edge, but I fight to hold on to some vestige of control…
It’s too much; it’s all too much, my body tightening, tight, my chest arching. “Maximus,” I gasp, wanting, needing… I lean into the release that beckons, so close now.
“Come for me, Cady,” Max demands in a voice husky with want.
“Maximus… please…Max!”
And then the only voice is mine, my cries breaking into the darkness as he urges me on, taking me higher, ever higher; not knowing he’s breaking through the walls as I shatter around him.
He brings me down gently with soft kisses, hands stroking my hips and leans his chin on my stomach as he looks at me. Curls falling over his forehead, and the smile…
There’s nothing predatory, nothing possessive about his expression. He’s happy… for himself. For me.
My heart cracks as he slips into it. “Maximus,” I murmur, my hands on his shoulders, urging him up to me.
And then he kisses me—soft and sweet, but it quickly becomes more, with heat and need and want, and I pull him to me, my arms open for him.
And then we lay on the lounge chair and watched the stars, my head on his chest, my heart racing as fast as his.
It’s like the wave knocked me down all over again.