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“Open your mouth,” I tell her. “Sit up straight.”
She obeys instantly. I push myself over her tongue, shoving my cock into the back of her throat. Holding her head, I thrust back and forth. “Keep touching yourself,” I tell her. “Come with me in your mouth. Come for me.”
Her hand returns to her clit. She stares up at me. It only takes another minute, and she’s on the brink. She opens her mouth wide, gasping around my cock as she suddenly lets out a long low moan. I glance down at her pussy in time to see it spasming, the muscles contracting as her hand falls slack to her side, her eyes closing as her orgasm washes over her.
I pull my cock free, jerking my hand back and forth to the root. I move fast, using her saliva as lube to get me to the edge. “Open your eyes,” I tell her. The moment she does, my climax hits. I spurt onto her face. It runs down her chin, dripping onto her chest. More sprays from me, coating her tits. I push myself into her mouth again, and she licks the last drops from the tip of me.
When I pull free, I step back, putting my cock away. “Go to bed,” I tell her.
She looks stung, but I need her gone. Fast. I toss her the tee shirt I discarded on the floor. She slips into the tee and walks out of the room, glancing back at me as if expecting me to say something else. I hold my tongue.
I’ll need to hold it the entire time she’s here.
I listen as she wheels her case to the bottom of the stairs, and then I hear the creak as she climbs, fading as she moves further above me.
20
Hunter
* * *
I sink into my armchair, grabbing a cigar from the humidor and setting it alight. I breathe in the smoke and let it out slowly. That was the closest I’ve ever come to something I know doesn’t exist. When I saw her with her cheeks glowing, her orgasm fresh in her mind, my cum coating her, I felt something I’ve never felt toward any woman. Something I refuse to think about.
I hear a movement in the hallway. “Not knocking?” I ask, lifting the humidor and opening it ready. “Think you’re in the club and not in my home?”
My father walks in, taking one of the offered cigars. “I bought you this home.”
He sits over by the piano, lifting the lid and playing a few bars of Beethoven. “You grew up listening to me play this,” he says. “Looks like it’s gathering dust here. Maybe I should take it back.”
“I don’t have much time to play,” I reply, inhaling on the cigar and then blowing a smoke ring that drifts over toward the door. “Got shit to do.”
“Like running a failing magazine?”
“I guess so.”
“You going to ask why I’m here?”
“Bored at home?”
“Ernesto’s moved his wedding date.”
“What? He can’t do that.”
“Why would he do that, do you think?”
I see the look on his face and it clicks a moment later. “He’s got wind of my plan.”
“You told him you had a girlfriend. You practically made him do it. Should have kept hold of your temper and your tongue. No one to blame but yourself.”
“So when’s the new date?”
“Friday.”
“But today’s Tuesday.”
“Wednesday now. It’s gone midnight.”
“Fuck. Well, I’ll just have to marry her tomorrow. Beat him to the crunch.”
