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“You can’t be serious.” His hands halo around my form when I drop to my knees. “Now?”
“Why not now?” When have I had the time to repay the favor from our sleepover? “By the way, ruin my hair and I’ll kill you.”
“What if I smudge your lipstick?” He chortles, lightening the mood.
I prefer this version of us. The sexually charged challenges. The contrary exchanges.
“We all make sacrifices, Jake.”
I take him out of his pants and he’s every marvelous inch of what I expect. I stroke his thick velvety length and my tongue darts out to taste the pre-cum at the tip.
“The hell did I do to deserve you?” He groans when my lips encircle his cock.
Jake jerks back at the first drawing suck I make, watching the color I painted on when applying my make-up smear from root to tip.
I look up at him under my eyelashes and make a leisurely show of pumping my fist and taking him as far to the back of my throat as possible. My eyes water. I blink back tears, continuing the rhythm.
Jake’s hips sway forward, chasing the warmth of my mouth the way I know I fall victim to when he pulls away from one of our breathless kisses.
His hands grow closer to my shoulders. My hair is down the way I’ve learned from the times he’s taken it out of clips and ponytails that he favors. He plays with the tips of my locks, running them between his thumb and forefinger as if they are as supple as the silk I’m wearing.
“I don’t know how much longer I can stay standing and still follow your rules.”
My knees dig into the carpet and the front of my dress fits snug to my upper legs, in danger of ripping. Yet, I moan around his dick. I have zero intention of stopping. Control slipping from a control freak makes Jake vulnerable, sexier.
I may not have had my fill of fighting with Jake, but I’m done arguing with myself over how much he turns me on. It isn’t too much to ask of the man that he stays upright while I have my way with him. The next episode of this little fantasy includes Jake losing it completely, gathering my hair to the base of my skull, and fucking my face. But he doesn’t need to know that right now.
Jake brushes my hair to my back, conscientious of the effort it took to curl each tendril.
“Fuck,” he says, on the verge.
His palm covers my neck, his thumb strokes the underside of my chin down to my sequined collar, and it rises again. The light pressure is intense and there’s a rush of wet warmth in my already damp panties.
He rides the hollow of my hand. Glides between my lips. Pushes through my pursed cheeks. The pace is frantic at the very end, when the fingertips of my other hand skim the underside of Jake’s balls, and the sensation tips him over. I swallow, taking something he’s withheld as my own.
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22
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Paisley’s mother has been boring a hole into my forehead since her daughter made introductions. If I were in a snarkier mood, I’d tell her I’ve had my fair share of practice with this technique. People in this town have been staring me down since I was a kid, so her laser vision doesn’t hurt. I actually took off for a few years while I could. The breather I got from not having to keep my defenses in place did me good. Although I was prepared for everyone’s negative reactions when I returned.
Part of me doesn’t blame Mrs. Cooper. I’m not the catch that Laughton is, given the crowd of men he’s lightheartedly cajoling into making bigger contributions with his too-wide smile, glad-handing, and boring ass stories about medical innovations.
There is also the fact that the server just set my cocktail on the tablecloth atop a napkin that has an embossed heart with an intersecting zig-zagged line. The frantic up and down of my pulse matches the staccato rhythm of the design. In bright red lettering, “Brighton General’s Cyrus P. Cooper Heart and Vascular Disease Foundation” surrounds it.
“You failed to mention this charity ball is named after your dad,” I say to my girlfriend.
What we did, what Paisley Cooper did to me an hour ago to make me relax, seemed very real. The disjointed place we are with one another right now—not knowing certain things about what makes the other tick—puts a strain on our connection.
“It wasn’t always. He started the ball when he was the head of the department. The board renamed it after his death.” Paisley plays with the corsage on her wrist.
There’s an overarching sensation that we’re out of place.
Or I am. Not that I don’t know why. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I’m playing along that our issue is my introduction to Mrs. Cooper wasn’t as pleasant as the welcome Paisley got from Caroline. However, the hair on my neck stands on end each time Laughton diverts his gaze to us. It was futile hoping he’d remain in his court while we shuffled in ours.
