Page 78 of Turning Back

“No,” Rochelle says, turning to put her arms around me. I hug her back and enjoy the thanks. “She loves it. I can tell.”

“How long does she usually sleep?” I ask, trying not to sound like a sex-craved pig.

“Long enough to get your reward, Mr. Bricman.” Rochelle pushes off me, grabs my tie, and then crooks her finger in a come-with-me gesture as she leads me out of the room.

I close the sliding barn doors as quietly as I possibly can, and then pick Rochelle up, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her to our bedroom. This time I slide the doors closed with less care, and then I throw her down on the bed.

“I’ve missed you too, Elias,” Rochelle says, already unbuttoning her jeans.

I slide my tie over my head, fingers flying down the buttons of my shirt, and whip it off. Rochelle has her pants off and is crawling over to the edge of the mattress, her long, blonde hair dragging across the white linen duvet cover.

I stand still and let her deal with my belt. The buckle clinks as it falls aside, and her small, nimble fingertips open the button of my slacks and unzip my fly. She reaches in and presses her palm flat against my growing cock, then steps off the bed and sinks to her knees in front of me.

Those wide hazel eyes are trained on mine. She has been properly schooled in all the ways Elias Bricman loves to be sucked over the last few years, and I can’t wait.

Her mouth opens, just a little. Just enough to taunt me as I watch her lick her lips. Her hands are sliding up and down my shaft, pumping me with an experienced rhythm. She is a woman who knows me. Every sexual thing that turns me on is inside her head. All she has to do is reach in there, pluck it from her memory, and take it out.

“Fuck,” I moan. She took them out.

Her tongue swirls along my tip, tasting me. Teasing me. And then her lips open and her warm, wet mouth covers my head. I close my eyes and reach for her hair. Bunch it up in my fists, like it’s a length of rope and I need it to hold me steady.

I don’t need to push her down on my dick. She swallows me eagerly. But I push anyway, reaching down with my hand to cup my balls. And then I push those up into her chin as she takes me all the way down her throat.

I hold her there, choking and gasping, until she presses both hands on my thighs and pushes me back. She looks up at me, sucking in air. Eyes trained on mine. Drool running down her chin.

She grabs the drool in her palm and slaps it around my cock, pumping me in long up-and-down twisting strokes. And then she leans forward, presses her mouth to the tip of my cock, and kisses it, spitting out more lubrication at the same time.

That is a move I have dreamed about dozens of times over the past year. Dozens of times. She is the only woman who kisses my cock that way.

I pick her up, twirl her around, and then bounce her on the mattress so her head is hanging over the edge.

“Ready?” I ask her.

“So ready,” she says.

I ease forward towards her wide-open mouth. I can’t see her eyes, and that’s the only thing I hate about fucking her throat this way. But I can almost see her goddamned tonsils. So, good enough.

Her tongue flattens against my shaft as I enter her mouth. Her lips seal against my skin. I hold her face with both hands and… I fuck her. I fuck her until she is gagging on her own spit. I fuck her until her hands are pressing so hard against my thighs, I can’t ignore her plea for release.

I come down her throat as she gags, then swallows. Once, twice. Three times her throat muscles caress my cock.

When I’m done, I pull out, grab her legs, spin her around, and sink my face down into her pussy.

She writhes beneath me. Her back arches and bends. Her whole body contorts as I lick and suck her until she, too, has no choice but to let go.

She comes in my mouth. Her orgasm is wave after wave of spasms and creamy liquid. And once I have it all, once I’m drunk and intoxicated on her climax, I crawl up her body, my cock slipping between her legs.

And then we truly begin to fuck.

Chapter Sixteen - Quin

Friday night, everything’s cool. I do the usual club and drinks thing with Robert. He goes home with some girl he’s never met before and will probably never see again. I pretend like this is fun and go home alone.

There’s about ten minutes at the end of my day where I wish things were different.

Saturday, I start wondering where she is and what’s she’s doing.

Thinking about Rochelle has been forbidden for the past year, so it’s weird to allow myself this luxury. Before last week thinking about Rochelle was something to avoid. It would inevitably lead to that familiar dull ache in my chest that would turn into sadness and despair if I let it fester too long.