11. Greer #3
"I'd stay here all night if you'd let me."
"Pull out your cock." The command in her voice makes me shudder. "Stroke it while I ride your tongue. I want to watch you fall apart all because of me."
My hands fumble with my belt, shaking with need. I get my pants open, my cock out, and it's achingly hard and already leaking. I wrap my hand around it and groan at the contact, at the relief and torture of finally touching myself.
"Good boy." She pulls my face back between her legs. "Now make me come."
I seal my mouth over her clit and work her with desperate focus, stroking myself in time with the movements of my tongue.
The dual sensation is overwhelming—the taste of her, the tight grip of my fist, the sounds she's making as she grinds against my face.
My eyes are locked on hers, watching her watch me, and the intensity of it is almost too much.
"That's it," she gasps. "Right there. Don't stop, don't fucking stop?—"
I don't. I keep working her with my tongue, feeling her thighs start to shake around my head, her grip in my hair becoming almost painful.
My hand speeds up on my cock and I have to force myself to slow down because I'm not coming before she does.
This is about her. About breaking her the way she's broken me.
"So close," she moans. "Fuck, I'm so close?—"
I release my cock reluctantly, holding her steady as I push two fingers inside her while my tongue focuses on her clit. The combination makes her cry out, her back arching off the counter, and I curl my fingers to find that spot that makes her?—
"Greer!" My name rips out of her throat as she comes, her whole body going taut, thighs clamping around my head as she grinds against my face. I work her through it, fingers pumping, tongue circling, drawing out every wave of her orgasm until she's gasping and pushing at my head weakly.
I'm so fucking hard it hurts. I wrap my hand around my cock again and it only takes three strokes—three desperate, frantic strokes while I watch Zaria Bennett fall apart on my kitchen counter—before I'm coming all over my floor, groaning her name like a prayer.
The orgasm hits like a freight train, whiting out my vision, and for a few seconds all I can do is kneel there and shake through it while she pants above me.
When I finally come back to myself, she's looking down at me with something in her expression that might be awe. Or possession. Or both.
"Jesus Christ," she says.
I rest my forehead against her thigh, trying to remember how to breathe. "Yeah."
Her fingers stroke through my hair, gentler now, almost affectionate. I want to bottle this moment. Want to live in it forever. Want to pick her up and carry her to my bedroom and spend the rest of the night making her moan my name until she forgets she was ever planning to leave.
My hands slide up her thighs, gripping her hips. I could do it. Could pin her here and?—
Her phone buzzes.
The sound shatters the moment like a gunshot. Zaria stiffens, her hand leaving my hair to grab her phone from where it's somehow still in her jacket pocket. She looks at the screen and curses under her breath.
"I have to go."
The words hit me like ice water. "What?"
"I have to go." She's already sliding off the counter, reaching for her underwear and jeans. "Something came up."
I stay on my knees, watching her dress with that efficient speed that tells me she's done this before—the quick exit, the sudden disappearance. My chest feels tight. "Zaria?—"
"Where's my money?" She's zipping up her jeans, all business now like she wasn't just coming apart on my counter five seconds ago.
I force myself to stand, to tuck myself back into my pants, to pretend this doesn't feel like she's ripping something out of my chest. "Let me drive you."
"Cain's already here."
Of course he is. Cain. Always fucking there, always ready to take her away from me. "I could?—"
"The duffel, Greer." Her voice is firm but not unkind. "I really need to go."
I walk to my bedroom on unsteady legs, retrieve the duffel bag from my closet, and bring it back to her. She takes it, slinging it over her shoulder like it doesn't contain enough money and product to send her to prison for a decade.
"Thank you." She reaches up and cups my jaw, her thumb brushing across my lower lip. "For this. For Rasheed. For all of it."
"Zaria—"
"I'll see you around."
And then she's gone. Out my door, down my driveway, sliding into the passenger seat of Cain's car before I can form a coherent protest. I watch from my doorway as the Challenger pulls away, taking her back to Jersey where I can't follow right now.
Taking her away from me like she always does, slipping through my fingers no matter how tight I try to hold on.
I close the door and lean back against it, staring at my immaculate living room that still smells like her. There's dirt from her boots on my floor. My kitchen counter where I just made her come. The wet spot where I came on the hardwood.
Evidence that she was here. That this wasn't another fantasy.
But she's still gone.