Sweet Filthy Boy - Lauren Christina - Страница 25

I lick him, playing a little, teasing. I’m greedy for the breathless noises he’s making, the rough eager grunts when I almost take him in and then pull away to kiss and play some more.

“I was thinking about you,” he admits in a whisper, watching me draw a long wet line from base to tip with my tongue. “I can barely think about anything else anymore.”

This admission uncoils something that had grown tight and tense in my gut, and I only realize how anxious I’d been about this when he says it. I feel like I’ve melted. It makes me eager to give him pleasure, sucking more of him, giving him the vibrations of my voice around him as I moan.

Seeing him like this—impatient, relieved at my touch—makes it easier for me to keep playing, keep being this brave, brazen seductress. Pulling back, I ask, “In your mind, what were we doing?”

“This,” he says, tilting his head as he slides a hand into my hair, anchoring me. I prepare myself to feel the full invasion of him into my mouth only a second before he pushes in deep. “Fucking these lips.”

His head falls back and he closes his eyes, hips rocking in front of my face. “C’est tellement bon, j’en reve depuis des jours . . .” With apparent effort, he straightens, leaning over a little, growing rougher. “Swallow,” he whispers. “I want to feel you swallowing.” He pauses so I can do what he’s asked and he moans hoarsely as I pull him deeper into my throat with the movement.

“Will you swallow when I come? Will you make a little hungry sound when you feel it?” he asks, watching me intently now.

I nod around him. For him, I will. I want anything he’ll give me; I want to give him anything just the same. He’s the only anchor I have to this place, and even if this marriage is only pretend, I want that feeling back, when it was free and easy between us that night in San Diego, and the one before that, which I only remember in tiny fragments, flashes of skin and sounds and pleasure.

For several minutes he moves, treating me to his quiet growling sounds and whispers that I’m beautiful, giving me every inch along my tongue before pulling almost all the way out and jerking his length with his fist, the crown of his cock tapping against my lips and tongue.

It’s like this that he comes, messily, spilling in my mouth, on my chin. It’s intentional, it has to be, and I know I’m right when I look up and see his eyes darken at the sight of his orgasm on my skin, my tongue swiping out, instinctively. He steps away, running his thumb over my lower lip before bending to help me up. With a damp towel, he gently wipes me clean and then steps back, preparing to lower himself to his knees, but he weaves slightly and when the streetlight outside catches his profile, I can tell he’s about to fall over in exhaustion. He’s barely slept in days.

“Let me make you feel good now,” he says, instead leading me toward the bedroom.

I stop him with my hand on his elbow. “Wait.”

“What?” he asks, and my thoughts trip on the rough edge in his voice, the simmering frustration I’ve never before heard from him.

“Ansel, it’s nearly three in morning. When was the last time you slept?”

His expression is unreadable in the shadow, but it isn’t so dark that I can’t see how his shoulders seem too heavy for his frame, how tired he looks “You don’t want me to touch you, too? I come on your lips and you’re ready for sleep?”

I shake my head and don’t resist when he reaches for me, slides his hand under his shirt, up my thigh. He spreads me with his fingers and groans. I’m drenched and now he knows it, too. With a quiet hiss he begins to move his hand, bending to suck on my neck.

“Let me taste this,” he growls, his breath warm on my skin, fingers slipping easily over my clit before pushing down and into me. “It’s been a week, Mia. I want my face covered in you.”

I’m shaking in his arms with how much I want him. His fingertips feel like heaven, his breath is hot on my neck, kisses sucking and urgent all along my neck. What’s another fifteen minutes of lost sleep? “Okay,” I whisper.

I wait until he’s finished brushing his teeth and slides into bed wearing only his boxers before I slip into the bathroom after him. “Be right there.”

I brush my teeth, wash my face, and tell my reflection to stop overthinking everything. If the man wants sex, give him sex. I want sex. Let’s have sex! I quietly pad out into the darkness. My stomach is warm, the space between my legs slick and ready and this is it, I think. This is when the fun starts, when I can enjoy him and this city and this tiny slice of life where I don’t have anyone else I need to worry about but me, and him.

The moon lights a path from the small bathroom to the foot of the bed, and I flip off the bathroom light, pulling the light covers back so I can climb into bed beside him. He’s warm, and his soap and aftershave immediately trigger the hunger I’ve missed for days now, that desperate need for the urgent grip of his hands, the feel of him kissing me and moving over me. But even when I slide my hand up his stomach and over his chest, he remains still, limbs heavy beside me.

Nothing comes out when I open my mouth the first time, but the second time I manage to whisper, “Do you want to have sex?” I wince at the stark words, blown free of nuance or seduction.

He doesn’t answer and I shift closer, heart hammering as I curl around his hard, warm body. He’s fast asleep, breaths solid and steady.

HE’S UP BEFORE me again, this time in a charcoal suit, a black shirt. He looks ready for a photo shoot: black and white stills of him caught unaware on the street corner, sharp jaw carving a shadow through the sky behind him. He’s bent over me, about to deliver a chaste kiss to my lips, when my eyes open.

He steers himself from my mouth to my temple, and my stomach sinks when I realize it’s Monday, and again, he’ll be working all day.

“Sorry about last night,” he says quietly into my ear. When he pulls back, his gaze flickers away from mine and he focuses instead on my lips.

I had dreams, though—sexy dreams—and am not ready for him to leave yet. I can still imagine the feel of his hands and lips, his voice grown hoarse after hours over and behind and beneath me. Sleep still clouds my thoughts, makes me brave enough to act. Without thinking, I pull at his arm and bring it beneath the covers with me.

“I had dreams about you,” I rasp, smiling sleepily up

at him.

“Mia . . .”

He’s unsure what I’m doing at first and I watch when understanding dawns as I drag his hand down my ribs, over my navel. His lips part, eyes grow heavy. Ansel meets my hips halfway with his hand, sliding his fingers between my legs and cupping me.

“Mia,” he groans with an expression I can’t quite read. It’s part longing and part something that looks more like anxiety. At the border, awareness trickles in.

Oh shit.

His suit jacket is folded over his other forearm, laptop bag still slung over his shoulder. He was rushing out the door.

“Oh.” The flush of embarrassment creeps up my neck. Pushing his hand away from my body, I begin, “I didn’t—”

“Don’t stop,” he says, jaw clenching.

“But you’re leavi—”

“Mia, please,” he says, his voice so low and soft it drips over me like warm honey. “I want this.”

His arm shakes, eyes roll closed, and I let mine do the same before I fully wake up, before I lose my nerve. What had I thought in Vegas? That I wanted a different life. That I wanted to be brave. I wasn’t brave then, but I pretended to be.

With my eyes closed, I can pretend again. I’m the sexbomb who doesn’t care about his job. I’m the insatiable wife. I’m the only thing he wants.

I’m drenched and swollen and the noise he makes when he slides his fingers over me is unreal: a deep, rumbling groan. I could come with barely an exhale across my skin I’m so keyed up, and when he seems to want to explore me, to tease, I rise into his fingers, seeking. He gives me two, pushed straight into me, and I grip his forearm, rocking up, fucking his hand. I can’t stop long enough to care how desperate I seem.