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A shiver of lust passes through me, and I lick a path along the shaft, tracing the heavy vein, sucking on the flesh here and there. I love the softness that covers all that hardness, the taste of him, the velvet of his skin—he’s mostly clean shaven, except for the curated happy trail. I go down and suck his balls, and I’m rewarded with a hiss of air.
Then I move up and lick and sample the sweet, clean wetness of the underside of the head, the shower water clinging to him. And I lick over the head, tracing the shape.
I start to do it all over again, and I do, over and over, faster and faster until finally I suck him into my mouth.
“Fuck, keep doing that, and I’m in fucking love.”
His words send a jolt through me. He doesn’t mean it, of course he doesn’t, but it floors me because that was my exact thought when he ate me into that almighty orgasm, when he clamped that damn toy on me and rode my ass into orgasmic heaven and hell.
I didn’t mean it either, except on that base, hormonal lust level. The kind of love that’s primal, inexorable and right.
Not love like people think of. But lust and sex and blood.
Lust. That’s the word. A deep, insane lust.
I suck him all the way down until he hits my throat. Hendrick grabs my head, and he uses me as a vessel to fuck, pushing my head down, pulling it back, his own fuck puppet.
I love it.
The grip he has in my wet hair is brutal; it makes tears rise. It’s wrong, and it’s beyond amazing. I want him to treat me as nothing more than his vessel for pleasure because, unlike Jac, this man rewards as he takes.
“Fuck. Fucking whore. You live for this, don’t you? Cocks hammering your mouth? You’re just a vessel for my cum. Fucking take it, slut, take it all.”
Then he comes, hard, spurting hot down my throat, and I swallow it.
I try and clean him with my mouth as he pulls out, still hard, but he’s got my hair, and he hauls me up and shoves me against the other wall. He hoists me up, and I clamp my legs around his waist as he sinks into my pussy.
Hendrick takes my mouth with hot, wild, deep kisses that claim. Thatown. And he bites and sucks a trail over my shoulder and back to my mouth. His tongue plunders as he pounds hard into me, so hard that I keep hitting the wall with force, and it’s that good, deep hurt full of pleasure and need inside.
It takes me a while, and I teeter on the edge.
He drops me to the ground, grabs my hair again, and turns me, only to hammer into my pussy from behind, so hard it’s like he’s trying to get his entire body inside me. It’s fucking delightful in the filthiest way.
I don’t even know where the orgasm comes from, but it sweeps me, and I scream out his name.
He isn’t finished. He pushes me down so my ass is high in the air, his hands biting my hips as the water pounds into my face, making it hard to breathe.
There’s a certain hint of panic to the lust as he slams balls deep into me. And in this position, he’s almost pile-driving me. He keeps hammering in and the pleasure builds and builds, and I almost choke as I come, my body convulsing and throbbing.
Hendrick cries out loud and grabs my hips harder, slamming in as he comes again, and I can feel him, the spurt, the twitch, the way he strokes in and then holds.
When he’s done, he withdraws and pulls me up into his arms and kisses me.
It’s utterly devastating, the tenderness of it, and I’m thankful for the shower water because it hides the sudden tears I can’t stop.
* * *
In nothing but his boxers—those form-fitting ones I love—he orders food, and I pull on one of his shirts. We eat Lebanese food with an old Cary Grant heist movie on the big screen that drops from the ceiling in the living room.
The movie’s a definite dig at me and who I am, but I’m currently sexed out and high on Hendrick, the scent of him, the heat, the feel of his arms as I sit on the floor between his legs, loving the semi-erection he sports for me. The stiffness there sends ripples of latent desire through me.
He drops kisses on my shoulder, kisses my lips and fingers. He feeds me hummus, and a homemade whiskey sour while he drinks his straight. He rests a hand on my thigh when we’re done eating, like this is what we do.
It’s both surreal and natural.
The complexities of Hendrick leave me spinning because I can’t quite work him out.
He’s both open and incredibly closed. Laidback and content, driven, and…not joyless…not sad, but something… There’s something dark that pushes down, that hooks around my heart.
