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I’m not sure who kisses who first, just that we’re both there, meeting halfway. A laugh falls out of us at the same time. It gets scooped up and carried away when I tackle him and we both fall backward, a mess of grins and wandering hands.
“How long until you need to leave?” I ask into the crook of his neck, and he lets out a stuttered exhale.
“I should’ve left ten minutes ago, but I’m past caring,” Dallas says, and I hum in firm agreement.
“Can I touch you? Can I taste you?”
He stills, and his throat bobs with a slow swallow. I didn’t get a chance to last night—he wouldn’t let me. It was a pride thing, not an unwillingness thing, he told me bashfully, but now his nod is unyielding. Aggressive and definite, and I pull away to look at him.
“Yeah, Mae,” he says from low in his throat. “You can touch me.”
“What do you like?” I ask, and I climb off of him.
He props himself up on the single pillow that’s left, one arm behind his head and the other sitting low on his stomach. “I—” he dips his chin and shudders out a breath. “Anything. Anything you do will feel good.”
“I want you to feel better than good, Dallas.”
I sit on my knees and lean forward, taking the head of his cock in my mouth. His groan is strangled, and he reaches out, fingers curling in my hair. I think he’s afraid I might disappear.
I wrap my fingers around his length and stroke him up and down. He’s the biggest I’ve ever had, thick and heavy in my hand. It takes me a second to get used to his size, but when I do,his sigh is etched with pleasure. He lifts his hips a fraction of an inch off the bed, meeting my hand and asking for more.
Dallas is always so controlled—so put together and so full of self-restraint on the field and off. Seeing him like this—greedy, selfish and desperate—might be my favorite side of him.
“Maven,” he croaks, and even in the heat of the moment it’s laced with reverence.
I take him back into my mouth, fully this time, and I work his cock as deep as I can. My eyes prick with tears and I breathe out of my nose, but I smile victoriously when I reach the base of his shaft.
“Christ.Fuck.I don’t—how are you—god, okay. I’m?—”
His words die and his grip on my hair tightens when I add my hand, and gently drag my teeth halfway up his length. A string of expletives follow when I squeeze then twist my wrist.
“That. Keep doing that. Please,” he begs.
I squeeze my thighs together, turned on by his enthusiastic reactions. I sneak a glance and find him watching me, his mouth popped open and awe burning in his eyes.
Dallas pulls his arm out from behind his head and reaches for me, nudging my knees apart and slipping his hand between my legs. “You like this, don’t you, pretty girl?” he asks, and slides a finger inside me. I moan against his cock, and his chuckle is anything but teasing. “Where do you want me to come, Maven? Down your throat? On your tits? Tell me, because you’re driving me out of my fucking mind, and I can’t last much longer.”
I pop him out of my mouth and continue to stroke him. I run my fingers through the pre-cum leaking from his slit and bring them to my mouth, savoring the saltiness. “My tits,” I say, and before I can explain myself, Dallas is flipping us around.
I land on my back and he kneels over me, his hand giving himself quick jerks.
His entire body is flushed, a deep scarlet that looks like he should be lounging under a sunset. His movements are rough, sloppy, and when I rest my hand on his thigh, over his tattoo, and reach for his balls, he loses it.
Warmth covers me from my stomach to my neck, and Dallas falls forward, bracing himself on the headboard. His breathing comes out in choked breaths, and I rub his leg, helping him calm down.
“Fuck,” he says. A bead of sweat rolls down his stomach, and I sit up and lick it off. “You’re perfect. Can I keep you?”
“That’s the orgasm talking. I hope my mouth is better than your hand.”
“Significantly.” He drops his head back and stares at the ceiling. “I really fucking hope we win today.”
“You’re thinking about football right now?” I ask, and his lips curve into a grin. “I guess I need to step my game up.”
“I’m thinking about football, because if we win, we’re doing that every fucking Sunday morning. And it would be a shame to waste such talent.”
Later, when Dallas kicks a sixty-seven yard field goal that goes down as a new NFL record, he points to me over a sea of people and makes a heart with his hands, another secret only we share.
THIRTY-FIVE
