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My stomach dips again, harder this time. Using his semen as lube is wrong. Not because it’s dirty—I have no problem with that—but because it’s intimate.
It’s exchanging bodily fluids the way people do in actual relationships.
It’s trusting each other in a way people in fake relationships don’t.
It’s also really, really hot.
“I don’t need lube,” I reply, spreading my thighs. “Clearly.”
Hank steps between my legs. “That’s not what this is about. Please, honey. Lemme give you what I want.”
I don’t want his possessiveness, his urgency, his lewdness, to turn me on. But it does. The muscles in my legs quake. My clit is in agony, begging to be touched.
Need coils so tight between my legs I think I’m going to die.
“Okay,” I say, against my better judgment. Not because I don’t trust Hank.
But because I don’t trust myself.
I don’t have time to second-guess my decision, because his fingers are parting my slit. Opening me to his caress. He coats me in his cum, a slick, front to back motion from behind that’s wildly sexy. The tip of his tongue is pressed to the corner of his mouth, like he’s concentrating.
Like he wants to get this just right.
Oh, Lord, does he. His thumb finds my clit, spreading his semen all over me, warm and sticky. Circling. Slow. Firm.
I can’t.
I close my eyes and hold on to the duvet for dear life. He presses his thumb against my clit, making my hips buck up into the air.
He takes that as an invitation.
That thumb moves up. Stopping just beneath my asshole.
“Let me?”
Ugh, of course Hank Beauregard is not afraid of ass play.
This guy is dangerous.
“Yes,” I breathe, nodding. Hiking my hips up a little higher.
His exploration is gentle. Curious. He gathers more cum on his thumb, a quick swipe up the furrow of my spine, and then he presses the pad of that finger against my entrance. He circles it.
Circles his middle finger against my clit at the same time.
That’s it.
That’s all it takes for me to come so hard it hurts.
I thrust my slit against his hand, crying out into the duvet as I’m fucking flattened by pounding sensation. The sweetness is unbearable, and I find myself thinking—feeling—things I shouldn’t.
I want him close.
Being the dangerous human being he is, Hank reads my mind and flips me over onto my back. I can only whimper, and I don’t resist when he covers my body with his and kisses my mouth, guiding my hands up to his sides so I can hold on. I curl my fingers into his flesh and just . . . take my time, and my pleasure.
No one has ever been so forward with me in bed.
No one has ever encouraged me to take with such reckless abandon.
The best part? Hank asks nothing in return. I feel a familiar rise begin inside me, one that says I owe him something for this, that I’m getting away with something I shouldn’t be.
It’s an echo of the demands and expectations that took down my marriage.
Give more.
Take less.
I’m shaking by the time my orgasm recedes. Hank stops kissing me just long enough to make me open my eyes. And there he is. Nose brushing mine as he looks down at me, his cock soft against the inside of my leg.
We’re both breathing hard, our eyes locked because . . .
We can’t look away.
Who the hell is this guy, and how did I let him sneak past my defenses?
He’s a thief, and if I’m not careful, he’ll steal something I’m not willing to part with.
I’m about to tell him to look away, let me up, when he says, “Hot shower sound good? You’re cold.”
That’s not it, I want to say. That’s not why I can’t get a grip right now.
I gently push him off me, blinking. “Yeah. Sure. Just let me use the bathroom real quick.”
I don’t want him to help me to my feet but he does. I pad to the toilet. I feel soaked in every sense of the word.
Nothing about what just happened was careful.
I am not being as careful as I should be.
I put my hand on the doorjamb. Take a breath. Hank’s cum has started to dry on my back, making the skin there feel tight.
“You okay?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I see Hank standing a couple of feet behind me in the bathroom.
He’s buck naked and beautiful.
“That—what just happened there—it felt different,” I manage, too tired—too something—to keep my defenses up. “And yeah, I’ll admit to that freaking me out a little.”
His forehead creases. “You’re freaked out?”
“No.” I give my head a vigorous shake. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. That felt too good to freak out over, you know? Or maybe I’m freaking out because it felt so good.”
Hank scratches his head. “Well, that’s a first.”
“Where’d you learn to make someone come like that?”
