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He squeezes in a third finger, twisting and spreading, getting me all stretched and ready to take him. Neck craned, I stare up at him, begging with my eyes. Telling him I’m ready.
Chin dipped down, hair teasing his shoulders, he gives a little nod. “Yeah, I think you’re ready.”
I gasp when his cock slips out of my mouth. Keeping his fingers inside me, he crawls back down between my legs. I feel him watching me—taking in the way my hole sucks at his fingers not unlike how my lips just suckled his dick.
Groaning, he slips them free, and pats his other hand around the bed.
A condom appears between his fingers, and he brings it to his mouth, ripping it open with his teeth.
His gaze flits to mine, black and bottomless. Shivers race through me and he smirks knowingly, wickedly.
“Sit up, baby,” he says huskily. He tosses the wrapper, and with well-practiced ease, slides the condom on.
I scramble to do as he says.
He makes a come hither motion with his fingers as he crawls backward toward the headboard.
“Now plop that pretty ass right here,” he says, patting his lap.
My eyes widen and I gulp.
“You’re gonna ride me.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
NOLAN
This boy is gonna be the death of me.
On all fours, he crawls toward my lap, his face tilted down demurely.
A shy, nervous smile teases his lips, his cheeks flushing. He doesn’t take his eyes off mine, watching me through those thick, dark lashes.
It comes so naturally to him, and I don’t even think he realizes just how sexy he is. How trusting.
We actually talked about it the other day—this dynamic we sort of fell into. He’s so new to all of this, and yet I never even checked to see if this is how he wanted it, with me in charge. Sure, he said he wanted me to top. But there’s topping…and then there’sthis.
It’s a game we slipped into it seamlessly.
He brings out the animal in me, and I bring out the sweet, submissive good boy in him.
It just is what it is, and hell if I really want to question it.
Still, I worried.
His body language is usually pretty damn telling. He’s so blatantly responsive in bed, that the second he seems a little uncomfortable or tense—his gaze spacey in a way that is far from the sleepy, satisfied look he gets after he comes—I notice immediately, as if there was a giant red light flashing over his head telling me to stop. Back up. Talk it out.
“I like it like this,”he’d said simply. And when I pushed for more, he shrugged, and said,“I told you, I don’t have to beon. It’s…nice. You know how to make me feel good. You know better than I do. And you slow down when I need it, without me having to even say a word. You just…know. It’s…”
I remember how his voice trailed off, a troubled look coming over his features before he continued,“I might not…like that outside of here, but when it comes to sex, I…think…I need that.”
So ever since then, it’s been no holds barred.
If anything, with every new encounter, he’s become increasingly more playful—naughty even—like he’s testing me, trying to lure out that wild, possessive caveman inside me I never knew was there.
It’s never been like this for me either, not that he knows that.
But again, I try not to question it too much.
