I’m going to die right here, a happy, blissed-out woman. Rarely has a man gone down on me, and I’ve told myself it’s not a big deal, but with the way Jett devours me, I’ve been unmercifully missing out in this department.
“You taste better than I ever could have imagined,” he murmurs, my desire coating his small beard. His pupils blow as he adds another finger, pumping into me with lazy strokes. I try to match his thrusts, but he only slows the pace.
“Faster,” I moan.
“I don’t want quick, Sofía. I want this to last.”
He keeps to his word, building me with soft, slow swipes of his tongue and the casual curl of his fingers, keeping me close to the edge. It’s a glorious form of torture, and when he increases his pace, bursts of light spark across my vision.
Fuck, I never knew it could be like this with Jett—with anyone, truthfully.
I’m climbing, climbing, climbing until I’m at the cliff ledge, dangling off the edge, barely holding on. He sucks my clit between his teeth, and I enter a free fall, the orgasm hitting me with such intensity that my vision darkens and my fingers cramp from the hold I have on the bedsheets.
Holy fuck.
That’s the strongest orgasm I’ve ever had.
Jett sucks in a sharp breath, then releases a low groan.
He’s still nipping and sucking, and I have to shove his head away from the hypersensitive flesh. The touch borders on painful, and my heart skips a beat when he reappears from between my legs, a victorious, cocky smile on his face.
I drag him down into a punishing kiss—one with more emotion than I intend. Hot and heavy morphs into something slow and inquisitive, and I have to fight the emotions swirling beneath my breastbone.
Fooling around is supposed to dissolve those emotions, not intensify them.
Chatter grows outside the door, and we pause, holding our breaths until the sound quiets. Jett huffs a laugh against my neck, goose bumps breaking out along my skin. He reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, his features softening.
“You are beautiful,” he says.
I turn my head to hide the discomfort his words cause. I’ve heard that before in the throes of passion. The words are empty. It’s what a man thinks I want to hear so I’ll do whatever he wants—blowjob, reverse cowgirl, doggy. It doesn’t matter what it is, there’s always an empty compliment beforehand. Expecting it doesn’t make it sting any less.
I ignore the pang in my chest, the way his brow furrows, and slide my hand down his chest to the erection digging into my thigh.
My palm slides against his zipper, and his head falls forward, a groan escaping him. “Take them off.”
“I, uh, I have to admit something,” he mutters, his forehead falling to rest against my shoulder.
Terror seizes my tongue, and all I can offer him is a grunt. He regrets this. I did something wrong, and he’s going to shut it down. I can’t pull a full breath of air into my lungs, each inhale shaky and shallow.
I’m ready to push him off me when he murmurs against my skin, “I got a little excited…”
My brain fizzles. “And?”
I have no fucking clue what he’s trying to say.
“I might have…finished early.”
Understanding dawns, and I would be a big fucking liar if I said his confession doesn’t impact me. An unnerving wave of pride and awe slams into me, and I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my cheeks.
I giggle, warmth and comfort bubbling out of me, and he steals the sound with a kiss.
“Give me a second,” he requests, and after a minute with his eyes squeezed shut, he says, “Okay, I’m good to go.”
He shifts, his hard length pressing against my thigh.
“How?” I’m flattered, impressed, and confused. But most of all, I’m having fun in a way I haven’t before, and it’s magical.
His laugh rumbles against my skin. “Thought about you in that black dress.”
