Chapter 6 #7
“That’s it,” he rasps. “Let me hear you.”
He eases one thick finger inside me, then two, stretching me, curling just right while his thumb keeps working my clit. I moan again, louder this time, the words tumbling out messy and desperate in Spanish I didn’t even know I had in me right now.
“No pares… Drew, por favor… me haces… ay Dios…”
He curses under his breath and pumps his fingers deeper, faster, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet room with only the fire and the rain for company.
My head falls back against his shoulder.
The t-shirt rides up. He shoves it higher with his free hand until it’s bunched under my arms, then yanks it off completely in one impatient motion.
Cool air hits my skin. Then his mouth is there—hot, wet, fastening over one tight nipple. He sucks hard, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make me cry out. My hands fly into his hair, holding him there while his fingers keep fucking me, relentless and perfect.
“Drew—fuck—I’m—”
He pulls off my nipple with a wet sound and looks up at me, eyes dark and wild. “Not yet.”
Then he’s moving. Shifting me on the couch like I weigh nothing, laying me back against the cushions, the blanket shoved aside. He kneels between my spread thighs, big hands pushing them wider, and the look on his face when he sees me—bare, wet, trembling—nearly undoes me.
“Gonna taste you now,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Been wanting to since the first time you mouthed off at me.”
He buries his face between my thighs without another word.
The first long, slow drag of his tongue has me arching clean off the couch.
He groans into me like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted, hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me down while he licks and sucks and fucks me with his tongue.
My fingers twist in his hair. Spanish spills out of me again, broken and filthy.
“Joder, Drew… tu boca… no pares… me voy a correr…”
He doubles down, sucking my clit between his lips, two fingers sliding back inside me and curling against that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes. I come so hard I see white—thighs shaking, back bowing, a broken cry tearing out of my throat that doesn’t sound like me at all.
He doesn’t stop until I’m whimpering, oversensitive, trying to push his head away. Only then does he lift up, mouth shiny, eyes feral.
I’m still catching my breath when he shoves his sweats down just far enough. His cock springs free—thick, flushed dark, a bead of precum at the tip. He wraps one big hand around the base and strokes once, slow, while he looks down at me like he’s deciding whether to ruin me or save me.
I reach for him. “Drew—please—I need—”
He catches my wrist, pins it gently above my head with one hand. The head of his cock drags through my slick folds, teasing my entrance, circling my clit, notching just barely inside before he pulls back. I whine, hips chasing him.
“Vale never gave you an orgasm,” he says, voice low and rough and mean in the hottest way. “Vale never touched you here…” The head of his cock presses against my clit again, then lower, just barely pushing in before retreating. “Or here… did he, baby?”
I shake my head frantically, too far gone to lie. “No—never—Drew, please—”
He groans like the admission does something violent to him. For one second I think he’s going to give in—push inside, fill me, fuck me until I forget Tristan’s name. My body is begging for it. I’m empty and aching and I want him so badly it hurts.
But he doesn’t.
Instead he shoves himself back with a curse, hand wrapping tight around his cock again. He strokes hard and fast now, eyes locked on mine, on my flushed skin, on the way my thighs are still trembling from what he just did to me.
“Fuck—Isa—”
He comes with a low, guttural groan, thick ropes of cum spurting across my smooth tanned stomach, marking me. Hot. Messy. Claiming. I watch it happen, mesmerized, the contrast of his rough hand and the white streaks on my skin making something dark and satisfied curl low in my belly.
He’s breathing hard when it’s over, still holding himself, cum dripping from the head onto my skin. His eyes drag up my body—marked, wrecked, glowing—and something like satisfaction and frustration wars across his face.
He leans down, one hand braced beside my head, and brushes his thumb through the mess on my stomach, smearing it a little like he likes the look of it.
“Feel better now, baby?” he asks, voice hoarse, almost gentle under all the roughness.
I stare up at him, chest heaving, body still pulsing, heart a complete disaster in my chest.
And I don’t know what to say.
Because the answer is yes.
And also no.
And also I think I might be in even deeper trouble than I was before.
The fire crackles. Rain keeps falling. Drew’s cum is cooling on my skin and his hand is still on my stomach like he’s not ready to let go of the claim he just made.
I close my eyes.
Because Drew Travers just proved his point.
And I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with that.