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“I want to know what it feels like,” she whispers. “I want to know what it feels like to make a man feel good.”
This is a bad idea, Milo. A bad fucking idea.
“I don’t think this is a—” I start to say, but when she leans forward and wraps her perfect little mouth around the head of my cock, all rational thought flies out of the fucking room. Out the front door. Out of the damn city.
Her mouth is warm and soft and so insanely perfect, I have to bite back the groan that threatens to escape my throat.
“I’ve never done this before,” she whispers, and uncertainty fills her brown eyes. “Tell me what makes you feel good.”
“I can assure you, anything you do right now will feel good.”
Because it’s the truth.
It’s a fucking certainty.
In my eyes, anything she does will be perfect. It’s a fact when it comes to her.
She slides herself down my body so she’s between my thighs, and all I can do is watch her as she wraps her mouth around me again. Her long locks create a veil around her face, and I reach forward to brush the rogue strands behind her ears.
With her hand gripped around my shaft, she moves her mouth up and down my length. But her tiny mouth can only take so much, and the mere idea of that only makes me harder.
“There is more cock than mouth, sweetheart.” I reach forward to brush my fingers across her lips. She starts to hesitate, but I add, “It’s fucking perfect. What you’re doing is perfect.”
You’re perfect.
My words encourage her further, and the way her eyes glaze over with satisfaction and confidence has my heart beating harder and faster inside my chest.
I watch the way her legs fidget beneath her. Her thighs clenching, her hips moving from side to side. I take in the way her shirt falls forward, revealing the soft curves of her breasts. And I’m riveted by the way her pretty little lips look wrapped around me.
She is beautiful and timid yet assertive and seductive.
She is sex and innocence, a fucking goddess before my very eyes.
The tip of her tongue moves up and down my length, and my thighs tighten with pleasure. My eyes glaze over as I watch her explore me. Taste me. Suck me. Her fingers grip and stroke, and her fingertips caress me.
A moan escapes her throat, vibrating against me, and the movement of her hips becomes more apparent.
She’s turned on. Craving. Wanton. Turning more aroused by the second.
Fuck, it’s nearly too much for my brain to process.
And it’s most definitely too much for my dick to handle.
My climax hits me hard, starting at the base of my cock and spreading throughout my whole damn body.
My heart pounds inside my ears and my breaths come out in erratic pants, and Maybe stays with me through the whole thing, her soft mouth wrapped around me, swallowing my orgasm through soft moans.
It’s the best fucking orgasm I’ve ever had in my life.
And it’s not because of what she did.
It’s because it was her lips wrapped around me.
It was her eyes locked with mine.
It was her moans in my ears.
It was her hands on me.
It’s because it was Maybe.
And you tried to say you weren’t falling for her…
Maybe
I step off the subway and head up the stairs and toward my fate.
Well, seeing as I still have another two hours before my interview with Taylor McHough at Beacon, not directly toward my fate, but that’s minor semantics.
I’m two blocks away from the building where Beacon House headquarters reside, and I can’t find the strength to finish the job.
I’m pacing. On the sidewalk. While fellow pedestrians bitch and moan and maneuver around me.
But I’m too lost in my own head to care.
In a few hours, I will be in the middle of what is the biggest interview of my life.
The pressure is suffocating.
God, what am I going to do until then?
I can’t just stand here pacing like a lunatic. No doubt, someone will call NYPD with a complaint of a deranged woman if this goes on any longer.
With a sigh, I turn on my heels and head in the opposite direction, four blocks east and another two blocks south and don’t stop until I’m standing directly in front of Fuse’s office building.
If anyone can understand my current insane state of mind, it’s Milo.
With my phone already white-knuckled in my hand, I pull up our ongoing text conversation and shoot him a message.
Me: I’m freaking the hell out.
Thankfully, he doesn’t disappoint and responds in one minute flat.
How do I know this? Because I’m currently a lunatic obsessed with watching the time.
Milo: What’s wrong?
Me: I have the interview, Milo. THE interview. With Beacon House.
Milo: Just take a breath. You’re going to do just fine. I promise.
