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I took him deep, slowly at first, and then in a rhythm, over and over. I used my tongue on him, my lips. I’d given blow jobs before, but never like this. I was a genius, and Nick’s cock was my area of expertise. In seconds, I knew everything I needed to know about it, every inch of it, every throb of reaction. When it came to Nick’s cock, I was an artist.
I could feel his body tighten, his breathing get shallower. I wondered if he was watching me. He probably was. I pressed him deep into me, until the head of his cock hit the back of my throat, and I felt his hand twist softly in my hair. “Jesus Christ, Evie,” he said in a tone of wonder and appreciation that made me wet again. “Jesus fucking Christ.” I kept at it, relaxing my throat, feeling him thicken in my mouth. This was what he liked, then. Two could play this game.
Seconds later, I evened the score. He came hard in my mouth, his come in hot spurts in my throat as his body pressed up into mine. I swallowed, something I’d never done with any other man before. I’d said he liked it, after all. Time to find out if it was true.
When he’d finished I sat back on my heels, wiping my mouth. My mind spun, but I had no chance to put my thoughts together before Nick was on the floor too, on his knees, his hand on the back of my neck. He pressed my mouth to his, kissing me long and deep. Maybe he tasted the remnants of his own come; I had no idea, but the thought made me even hotter.
He broke the kiss, and without another word he put an arm around my waist, pulled me to standing, and flung me over his shoulder. I made anoofsound as he walked me into the bedroom and flung me down onto the bed. Still not speaking, he crawled over me, bracing himself on his arms and kissing me again. I was like hot liquid beneath him, beneath that body, that kiss, the wordless determination of it, like he couldn’t stop himself.
He broke away again. “Ten minutes,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Give me ten fucking minutes, and I swear I’ll fuck you again.”
“Okay,” I said against his mouth.
His mouth trailed down to my breast, my nipple. “You get anything you want,” he said. “Think about it. Get creative.”
I smiled in the dark. At least he was appreciative. “You really do like blow jobs,” I said.
“That wasn’t a blow job,” he said, his scruff brushing my breast. “That was some kind of voodoo thing.”
“I’ll stick pins in you later,” I said.
“Fine,” he replied. “Just let me fuck you first.”
* * *
An hour later—becausehe took that long to exact his revenge, which finally had me begging him—we were under the covers, tangled up and half asleep, when I remembered what we’d been fighting about. He’d asked me if I’d had sex with him to get back at Josh.
It had made me mad at the time, but now I wondered: Why had he thought that? Why did he think I wouldn’t have slept with him otherwise? Did he ask me that just to piss me off? I hadn’t missed the fact that he’d changed the topic when I asked about his brother. Maybe it had been a distraction question, though I didn’t know why. Or maybe, in Nick’s world, it was perfectly plausible that a woman would have the best sex of her life with a man, just to get back at somebody else.
He seemed so simple on the surface, but it was deceptive. There was something going on beneath that I couldn’t see.
“Nick,” I said.
He was lying on his side, facing away from me. I stared at his gorgeous, muscled back.
“Mmm,” he said, his voice sleepy.
“Come to dinner,” I said.
He rolled over onto his back, rubbed a hand over his face. I could see his tattoo, the bracelets on his wrist. The tattoo meant something, I was sure of it, and so did the bracelets. Something he wouldn’t admit to.
“What?” he asked, confused.
“Come to dinner,” I said again. “Tomorrow.” I remembered it was the wee hours of the morning. “Today, I mean. At my mother’s. Don’t get leprosy or go to Mars. Come to dinner instead.”
He frowned a little staring at the ceiling. “You don’t want me there,” he said. “You said it’s a bad idea.”
I had. I had said that. He should have told me off for saying that to him, that he was basically an embarrassment, but he hadn’t. He seemed used to it. “It’s just dinner,” I said. “You should come.” Too late, I remembered him saying he’d never met a woman’s family. Maybe he’d laugh and say no way.
He just blinked and turned his head on the pillow, looking at me. His gaze took me in in the dark. I could see him thinking, could see something behind his eyes. I just didn’t know what those thoughts were.
“You want me to?” he said at last.
“Yeah,” I said. And I did. I didn’t want to go to dinner by myself. I wanted him there.
He looked wary, and then he frowned in confusion again. This was really, honestly a situation he’d never been in. “Okay,” he said finally.
I smiled a little. It was kind of cute, how being invited to dinner at my mother’s house baffled him. I punched his shoulder. “Relax,” I said. “It’s roast chicken, not marriage.”
