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“You can’t tell?”
Her hips rock a little and I moan miserably, biting her neck lightly to stop the sound. My cock jerks and my balls pull up more, so fucking ready to spill.
“Why not?”
“You haven’t told me I could.” I hiss as my dick twitches again. I lift my head. “Agency regulations.”
“God, Riot.” She lifts a hand to my face, strokes my cheek. “Yes, you may come. And it’s a given from now on.”
From now on. She means…?
My thoughts spin and fade into a whirlwind of sensation as she runs her hands down my chest to where we’re connected. Her fingers circle the base of my cock, then dart lower and cradle my balls.
One touch, one squeeze is all it takes. I can’t stop a cry at the orgasm slamming into me, or the way my hips snap up and I hunch over her, my dick pulsing in great jolts of blinding pleasure.
Oh shit, fucking hell, oh...I think I black out for a sec, my body shaking and my balls aching and my dick jerking and, fuck, too much. Too fucking awesome.
And then she says, “Are you a fan of the Hellfire Fighters club?”
Bringing the world tumbling down around me.
***
Her fingers are buried in my hair, tugging lightly, sending tiny sparks of pleasure into my scalp and down my neck. I’m lying half on top of her on the sofa, half on the cushions, my dick still inside her.
Shit. The condom.
Moving, getting up is like swimming against a rip current. And besides...Holy shit, did she ask me about the club?
“Need to throw away the condom,” I mutter and push myself up, pulling out of her. The pleasure is excruciating. I’m still half-hard.
Yeah, insane. How much I want her. And now…
“Those flame tattoos you have, and the one on your back. It says Hellfire.”
“Just a sec.” I tug off the condom, tie it off. “Be right back.”
“Riot.” Her voice stops me. “It’s a fight club.”
I swallow hard against fear and anger. “You asked about it?”
“I was at a tattoo shop with a friend. I was curious.”
Fuck. I get up and find the bathroom, get rid of the condom and take a moment to breathe. I wash my hands, splash cold water on my face.
When I return to the living room, she’s curled sideways on the sofa, watching me with her bright dark eyes.
“You’re a fan?” she asks. “Of a fight club? That’s not a crime.”
“It’s an illegal club,” I say. She thinks...“Why would you think I’m a fan?”
She laughs. “Because of the tats?”
Okay. Relax. She doesn’t think I’m a fighter.
Probably because the agency say they screen their escorts. But I don’t have a rap sheet. No record of my past at the club.
“Yeah.” I try for a smile, go to sit beside her, pull her to me. She doesn’t need to know. We’re not dating. My past is private. “Do you have any tats?”
