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Down slides my shorts and underwear to grant my dick its well-earned freedom. And the second cool air greets the tip, her hand rushes to envelope it, slickening my girlfriend’s greedy grasp. Unlike before when the motions were gradual and grazes more tormenting rather than pleasing, her actions now don’t bother with bullshit teasing. She latches her mouth onto mine. Forces my lips apart. Dives her tongue inside and unleashes it to roll to the same wild pattern she’s pumping. From base to tip, tip to base, base to balls, Harper’s fingers feverishly glide, pulling my cock towards her like we’re actually fucking. Like she’s actually lifting her thighs and tightening her arse to meet each unabated hit to the hilt. Brutish grunts leave me on small bangs of the doorframe, each strike delivered in aggravation and elation alike. Faster whips of her tongue are mimicked by increasingly faster jerks. The whirlwind combination of the two paired with my intoxicated state simply leaves me more anxious to come than eager to prolong it. My mouth mindlessly falters from hers, leaving our foreheads to knock into one another as I aggressively heave into her hand’s unremitting movements. Scorching breaths from her burns the nerve ends in my face and force my toes to flex in place for additional leverage in surviving what’s coming next. Tingles trickle themselves down my spine. Up my calves. Latch onto my balls and break the minuscule amount of restraint I had left.
“Fuck, álainn,” I breathlessly rasp, “I’m gonna come.” One moment before I do, her grip entirely disappears leaving my dick to be swallowed instead. There’s no holding back once the sultry heat from her tongue bathes the underside of my shaft like a king whose feet she doesn’t feel she deserves to worship at. Each press causes my cock to kick and cum to coat every inch of the mouth no other man will ever have again at the same time I command, “Ar fad leanbh.”
She relaxes her throat and chokes down every last drop, submitting to my demand on her knees, the same way she does when I’m deep inside her. Harper’s muscles constrict for mercy yet never waiver from taking everything I give.
That’s probably what I love most about my woman.
She can handle whatever comes her way.
She’s truly fearless even though she doesn’t realize it.
And with someone like her in my life, it’s much easier to take the bigger risks I find myself ready for.
I just hope she’ll be by my side for each one.
Chapter 7
Harper
It’s never been this hard before to not abuse my power.
First and foremost, it’s not as though I have a shit ton of it to abuse.
This isn’t my nonprofit.
I’m not a major donor.
I don’t sit on the board or whatever they call the structure that makes all the very important life-changing decisions.
The most power I really have is in creating our team’s schedules. Approving and denying vacations. Scheduling appropriate on call shifts for those with their pilot’s license. Insuring no one team member is run more ragged than others. Now, of course, in doing so, this really requires me to not play favorites, which is super easy; however, it also means not treating myself or my time or my wants as more valuable than theirs. This – thanks to my smooth talking, culturally rich, sex machine – has become increasing difficult. Knowing his schedule and wanting to spend all the time we can together tempts me into writing my own so that we have more moments together, yet I can’t do that in good conscious.
I don’t like the idea of fucking over everyone else who has lives of their own they wanna be living just so I can wake up with my boyfriend’s head between my legs more often.
That wouldn’t be fair.
That would be an abuse of power.
But fuck me, it’s enticing.
Especially when I’m on day three of four of my twelve-hour shifts and have barely physically seen him.
I lean back in my leather chair while scanning the employee document on the left of the screen with the information regarding trainings on the right as the So I Married An Axe Murderer podcast I’m listening to takes an unneeded dramatic pause regarding who is opening the woman’s bedroom door.
Was it the neighbor she thought was stalking her?
Was it the husband coming home early from his so-called boys’ trip?
You know it’s almost always the husband who murders the wife, which in itself is very fucking unsettling.
Also, I’m obsessed with the way this podcast is basically telling this serial case like a murder mystery book versus a long-winded lecture I didn’t mean to click on.
Bekka Weyrick’s voice enters my ear bud once more at a much lower tone. “You have to understand. This woman had no idea the hell she was about to endure when that knob turned. She gripped the book in her hands a little tighter. She was doing everything she could to stay calm; however, her instincts were not only screaming something wasn’t right, but they were also shouting something was about to go very, very wrong, which is why when he opened his mouth and said-”
“Hey!” an unexpected male voice greets forcing me to pick up the nearby stapler in self-defense. Daniel Wainwright, my ex-husband, cheerfully smiles in the doorway of my office at the same time he jokes, “And here I thought we were more cordial than that.”
“Sorry,” I lightly laugh, place the stapler back where it belongs, and usher him inside. “I’ve been listening to these murder podcasts lately, and they’re great for keeping me wide-awake, not so great at keeping me from being jumpy.”
He saunters over with his coffee cup in hand to one of the leather office chairs on the other side of my desk. “I didn’t know you liked podcasts.”
