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I can’t recall the last time I saw one.
What do I know?
And aside from the fact that I’m sitting naked, on a kitchen counter, in a penthouse, that belongs to Chicago’s most eligible bachelor, who just so happens to be the hottest man on the planet, I have an opportunity to get some hands on, real life experience with my That Guy. This is research. Nobody made the New York Times’ bestseller list with a book they didn’t do some research on.
Sigh….
The things I do to be a good writer.
I finish my wine. Grab his glass and finish it too. Shrug the blanket off my shoulders. Wrap my hands around his neck. Pull him to me. Lock my legs around his waist. And fist his hair in my hand.
“Kiss me, Jake.”
Within moments we’re back on the couch. Our movements frantic. Mine because I need him. His because he’s probably afraid I might change my mind. But that can’t be right. Because he grabs my wrists. Pins them over my head. Gives me a long, thoughtful look and then asks, “Are you sure, baby?”
Baby.
Gah.
If I wasn’t sure before. I’m sure now.
“Please.”
His mouth is on my nipple. Hands cupping my ass. Hips grinding against me. He moves lower. Lower. Lower. That tongue of his finds my clit and performs that tongue dance he’s so good at. He slips a finger inside me. I’m a little embarrassed by how easily it slides in. He adds another finger and there’s not much resistance there either.
It doesn’t take long for me to reach that point where I don’t care if a small SUV can drive in there. I’m coming so hard, screaming so loud, flying so high, feeling so. Damn. Good. I fear I may lose consciousness.
He asks me something and I nod. I have no clue what I just agreed to, but it doesn’t matter. If I die, I’ll go out knowing that sparks really do explode behind your eyelids when you have the right kind of orgasm.
You know, I’m ashamed to even look Jake in the eye right now. Because that big Coke can cock of his that I swore wouldn’t fit, slides right up inside me without anything more than a slow, persistent thrust. Jake does the whole, “So fucking tight,” speech on a pained cry, and I know it’s just to make me feel better.
“You have to relax, gorgeous. Trust me. I won’t hurt you.”
I just stare at him. Really, asshole? Did you have to say it out loud? It’s obvious he isn’t going to hurt me. Because it’s also obvious that I’m not as narrow as I thought I was.
To humor him, I let out a loud breath and relax every muscle. It’s like someone let the air out of me. I just deflate completely and sink about three inches into the couch cushions. I hadn’t realized how tense I actually was.
I hadn’t realized Jake wasn’t even halfway inside me either.
I can’t help it. I smile. Big cheesy grin. You know…because narrow channel and all that.
“Pretty proud of yourself I see.” He pushes deeper and my smile turns into an O. He slides out, thrusts back in a little more and I groan. The next time steals my breath and he pauses to kiss me stupid and remind me to breathe before pulling out and burying himself in me completely.
Oh.
My.
Fuck.
It’s so much. So, so much. I’ve heard this sensation described as feeling full. I’m past full. I’m in cock overload. I can feel this motherfucker in my spine. One wrong move could result in paralysis. This shit isn’t natural.
“Penelope….”
I hope like hell that strangled cry is because he’s just come and this is over and he can get out of me while I still have feeling in my legs.
“If you don’t stop squeezing my cock you’re going to kill it.”
“What?”
He chuckles. Mutters something. Lowers his mouth to mine. I melt. The moment I do, I understand what he’s talking about. He doesn’t shrink in size. My vagina doesn’t get any bigger, either. But without the Kegel death grip, the feeling changes. Still more than full, but not at all unpleasant. The great thing about big dicks? They can reach places that elicit sensations most women don’t even know exist.
Take my word for it, though. They exist.
“You think too much.” His hips swivel and I gasp. “If I can’t make you forget everything but me, then I’m not doing something right.”
“You’re right.” I grin up at him. “Perhaps you should step up your game, Mr. Swagger.”
His smile is wicked. “My pleasure, Miss Hart.”
I really need to learn to keep my mouth shut.
I’d have been fine with plain ol’ vanilla sex—me on my back. Him thrusting and grunting inside me while I moan and claw at his arms. But when Jake Swagger steps up his game, it’s like going from Pee-Wee football to the NFL. Just…one minute you’re a three-foot-tall quarterback, missing your two front teeth, pausing mid-throw so your mom can take a picture, and the next you’re six two with a Nike endorsement, a Maserati, a supermodel to cook your dinner and another to lick your balls.
