12. Michelle #2
I want more than his fingers this time. My hand fumbles for his belt, frantic with want, but again he stops me, catching my wrist and pressing it gently back.
“Not yet,” he says.
I don’t argue. I couldn’t if I tried. He’s pumping harder, faster, hitting that spot inside me with surgical precision. His gaze stays locked on mine as I start to come apart.
The pressure builds to a breaking point, white-hot and blinding. I’m shaking, clinging to him as my orgasm crashes through me. He holds me steady, forehead pressed to mine, fingers easing into a slower rhythm until the last tremor leaves my body.
As he pulls me close, I catch my breath and ask, “Why won’t you fuck me?”
“It’s not that I won’t,” he says. “I just want to make you wait.”
I push him back gently, sliding off the counter. My legs are unsteady, but my voice isn’t.
“So you’re just going to leave?” I ask, letting my gaze drift down to the very obvious bulge straining against his trousers. “With that?”
He checks his watch and shrugs, casual and cool. “I have a meeting.”
That control is back in his voice, smooth as ever. I wonder what it would take to break it.
My heart hammers as I lower myself to my knees. I look up, catching his gaze and hold it as I lean in.
I press a soft kiss against the rigid line of him through his trousers. Then another. Open-mouthed, lingering just long enough to feel him twitch beneath the fabric.
“Go on, then,” I say, letting the words brush against him. “Go to your meeting.”
His jaw clenches. A muscle ticks in his temple. It's the only crack in his composure.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
I run my palm over the thick ridge beneath his trousers, and that’s all it takes. His hand goes to his belt. The metallic clink echoes in the quiet room, followed by the slow rasp of his zipper.
“You can’t be serious,” I whisper as he frees himself.
Jesus. He’s huge—long, hard, and thick. My mind blanks for a beat, struggling to reconcile what I’m seeing. It’s nine inches, easy, but it’s the girth that really gives me pause.
“Satisfied?” he asks, all smug confidence.
I don’t answer. Just meet his gaze as I drag my tongue slowly up the length of him. His body jolts at the contact, and a low groan escapes his chest. A deep, involuntary sound that sparks heat low in my belly. I do it again, slower this time, just to watch him fall apart.
His composure doesn’t last. His fingers tangle in my hair, not pulling, but like he needs something to hold onto.
“God, Michelle,” he rasps, voice frayed at the edges.
I keep teasing, circling the head with my tongue, tasting salt. The thought flickers—I could probably make him come with just my tongue. But I’m not that cruel.
I take him into my mouth, slow and steady.
He’s so thick my throat protests, eyes stinging as I ease into a rhythm—mouth and hand working in tandem.
His hips twitch and he watches me, eyes dark, jaw clenched.
I feel the unraveling in every inch of him.
The tension building in his thighs, the stutter of his breath, the way his fingers tighten in my hair.
I quicken my pace, taking him deeper with every stroke. He hits the back of my throat again and again, and I take it, pushing past the ache, chasing the moment I make him lose it completely.
I don’t stop.
I look up, locking eyes with him as I take him. His gaze is wild, barely hanging on. It only takes a few more frantic, perfect strokes before he comes apart.
He chokes out a groan, hips jerking as he spills into my mouth. I swallow, holding him through every pulse and twitch, until the last of his release fades.
I lick him clean, dragging my tongue slowly over him, just to feel him flinch from the sensitivity.
Then he reaches for me, strong hands guiding me up from my knees. For a long moment, he just looks at me. No smirk. No smugness. Just a stunned kind of reverence that makes something warm stir low in my chest.
“God, you’re incredible,” he says.
There’s softness in his voice. It’s sweet, I guess. And of course, my first instinct is to ruin it.
“You should go to your meeting,” I say, trying to step back.
But his hands find my waist, pulling me close again.
“I’ll cancel it,” he says.
The words catch me off guard. Men like him always have somewhere else to be, somewhere more important than me. But he doesn’t pull away. He holds me like this is exactly where he wants to be.
“I need to sleep,” I say, trying again. He doesn’t let go. His arms only tighten.
And that’s what nearly undoes me. Because I want him to stay. But we’re both spent. The sex part is over. So if he stays now, it’s not for that. It’s for the company. And I don’t do that. That’s how you get attached. That’s how you get hurt.
“Go,” I say firmly.
“I can come back—”
“It was just a blowjob, Carter. Let’s not make it weird.”
That does it. He lets me go, and I lead him to the door.
“Goodnight,” I say as I close it behind him.
“I’ll call you,” he replies, his voice muffled through the wood.
And then he’s gone.
I stay by the door, listening until his footsteps fade down the hall.
I bite my lip, still breathless, replaying the way he looked at me like I’d wrecked him. A man like Dean, completely undone by me. That’s a power I could get used to.
But that’s all this can be. If I let it mean more, if I let emotions get involved, I lose.