Tangled Up in Love (21 page)

She could feel him vibrating with unleashed arousal, his teeth grinding as he fought not to reach out and take over, to simply take what he so obviously wanted. The knowledge of just how strong that urge was in him made her thighs clench and weakened her resolve to go slow and draw out the agony for both of them.

Licking her lips and swallowing past the lump of dry desire in her throat, she pushed the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, waiting for him to sit up just a bit so she could pull it free and toss it aside altogether. While she went to work on the snap of his jeans, his hands came up to toy with her breasts. Cup them, squeeze them, circle and tease her nipples with the sides of his thumbs.

She moaned and arched her back, enjoying his ministrations even as she considered shutting him down. Was she still in the driver’s seat if she let him take the wheel now and again?

Did she care?

At the moment, no. Right now, she was much more interested in getting them both naked so she could
really
start making him squirm.

The metal rivet of his jeans popped open and she very carefully began to lower the zipper. It wasn’t easy, considering the pressure of his erection pressing against the other side.

To keep tender flesh from getting snagged . . . because she couldn’t think of anything that would put an end to an intimate encounter quite as quickly—or painfully—as getting a guy’s cock caught in his zipper . . . she slipped her free hand inside, behind the denim closure.

Although the thin barrier of his underwear protected her from direct contact with his goods, they didn’t keep him from groaning or his dick from twitching. His grip on her breasts tightened as his head fell back and he let his eyes drift closed.

“Don’t fall asleep on me yet,” she teased softly.

“Trust me,” he said, eyes still closed, “I’m wide awake.”

She could feel that. He pulsed beneath her hand, and she was flooded with exquisite memories of having him inside her, so long and thick and relentless.

When the zipper was as low as it would go, she trailed her fingers under the waistband of both his pants and briefs as far as she could.

“Lift up,” she told him, flexing her hands so that her nails dug gently into the tender flesh of his hips and upper buttocks.

He did as she asked, and she wasted no time skimming the jeans down his legs. But to get them all the way off, she had to slide off his lap and onto the floor. Once there, she made short work of removing his boots and socks and, finally, his pants.

“That’s better,” she murmured, taking a moment to admire what a gorgeous male specimen he was.

All hard planes and smooth lines. Rakish, windblown hair and a hint of stubble covering his jaw. Hairy legs and a less hairy chest. Less hairy, but with an alluring trail of light curls leading down, down, down in a pleasure path to his most masculine asset.

He had perfect shoulders, perfect biceps, perfect pecs, a perfectly mouthwatering set of six-pack abs . . . and that was only above the waist. Below, he had the potential to raise a woman’s core temperature by at least ten degrees for every second she spent admiring him. It was like looking into the sun, blinding in its intensity.

She felt the tip of her tongue dart out to worry the center of her upper lip. It didn’t help, either, that she knew exactly what that piece of equipment could do. She knew its potential, its staying power, and the amazing skill of the man who wielded it.

From his deceptively relaxed pose, Dylan’s eyes fluttered open, flickering like blue flame as he stared down at her. “Keep doing that with your tongue,” he warned, “and you won’t be in charge much longer.”

Tilting her head to one side, she said, “Oh, really? You got a problem with my tongue?”

It was the worst
Godfather
/
GoodFellas
/
Taxi Driver
impression ever, but it brought a smile to his face nonetheless.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. I can think of much better things for a naked woman to do with her mouth.”

She arched a brow. “A naked woman who’s already on her knees, you mean?”

His smile transformed into a full-fledged leer. “Yeah.”

Oh, he had some nerve. What part of
woman on top
did he not understand? She should punish him for his insolence, really she should.

A shiver of excitement stole through her at the memory of the first time he’d shown up at her apartment, and his discovery of her Domiknitrix screen name, which had led him to openly wonder what hid inside her bedroom closet.

Leather bustiers? Fishnet stockings? Thigh-high vinyl boots with razor-sharp stiletto heels? Riding crops and full-length whips?

She wished now that he’d been right. If she’d had a few pleasure-and-pain sex toys tucked away, she would retrieve them and show him exactly how a dominant/submissive relationship was supposed to work.

But since she’d pretty much been thinking along the same lines as he was, she decided not to punish him. Yet.

Then again, a good blow job—if done right—could be a decent form of punishment, too.

She decided then and there to suck him until he begged, cried, whimpered . . . and came like an unmanned fire hose. That would teach him who was boss.

Rising up a little straighter from her crouched position, she placed her hands on his bare knees and applied
pressure, causing him to splay his legs farther apart. Then she moved between them until her belly bumped the edge of the sofa. At the same time, she let her fingers dance over the tops of his thighs, enjoying the crisp, rough texture of the tiny hairs there.

She could feel his muscles like steel beams beneath his skin, and the slight, occasional tremor of need that ran through him from head to toe. The brisk, wintry fragrance of his cologne mixed with the headier trace of his own testosterone-laden scent, and she breathed deep, inhaling every musky molecule.

His fully erect cock, surrounded by a bed of tight, light blond curls, strained upward and nearly bent far enough away from her to touch the flat surface of his belly. The soft, walnut-sized spheres of his balls were already drawn up with arousal and in anticipation of even greater pleasure.

She licked her lips again. He wasn’t the only one thrumming with expectancy. The upbeat strains of “Lollipop, Lollipop” started rolling through her brain, and she found herself silently humming along.

From the moment she’d stripped him bare and gotten her first really good look at him (her apartment had been much darker the first time they were together, with only the occasional ray of moon glow to illuminate their respective bodies), she’d been wanting to lick him like a lollipop, so it was no surprise the song had popped into her head.

Her gaze rose one more time to his. His clouded, blue velvet eyes were watching her through hooded lids. With a smile, she leaned forward, opened her mouth, and ran the flat of her tongue along the bottom of his thick, velvet-over-steel length from base to tip.

Dylan let out a hiss, his hips rising slightly from the cushion of the sofa of their own volition. For a brief second, his eyes fluttered completely closed and the cords of his neck went taut as his head tipped back.

But then he seemed to get himself under control, nostrils flaring and chest rising as he breathed deep. A second later his eyes were open and riveted back on her. The only outward sign of his continued eagerness was his fingers clenching and unclenching in the sofa cushions on either side of his hips, as though trying to keep himself from reaching out to grab her and force her mouth to go exactly where and how he wanted it.

She might have grinned if her lips hadn’t been otherwise occupied. Then again, she thought, as she swirled her tongue around the plum-shaped tip, it turned out to be pretty easy to smile around a guy’s cock, as long as she was careful with her teeth.

And she was . . . very careful. Careful to use just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of suction. She licked and nipped and treated him just like the lollipop she’d been humming about, and then tilted her head to take him inside.

Within her closed lips, her tongue swirled around the rigid length, her hand clasped him near the base. Every once in a while, her fingers gave him a squeeze and she made a concerted effort to change up the motion of her mouth, to never continue the same action for long.

“God, you’re good at that,” he said in a thin, tight voice that made him sound as though he were being strangled. “Whatever happens, don’t stop. Fire, flood, earthquake . . . keep going, just like that, and I’ll die a happy man.”

Since she couldn’t speak at the moment, she responded by fluttering her lashes in what she hoped was a coquettish and seductive way. If not . . . well, giving head caused bizarre enough facial expressions to begin with; she didn’t want to look like she was being struck by ocular Tourette’s at the same time.

Under her elbows, which rested on his long, hard thighs, she could feel Dylan flexing, struggling to control his breathing, trying to hold back his body’s sharp response to what she was doing.

But she didn’t want him to hold back, didn’t want him maintaining control. She wanted him sweating out of every pore, teetering on the edge of the most excruciating orgasm he’d ever experienced, and breaking apart like a meteor rushing to earth.

While one hand continued to apply on-and-off pressure at the base of his cock, her other slipped down between his legs to cup his balls. She both heard and felt him inhale sharply at the added caress, and tasted the salty evidence of his impending climax on her tongue.

Slowly, as the hand on his testicles grew more active, squeezing and rolling the small globes around and against each other, the hand on his penis loosened so that she could take all of him into her mouth. That caused him to shudder again, and she increased the tempo of her suck-and-slide routine to keep him right there, right on the brink.

“Ronnie, that’s enough. I’m gonna blow,” Dylan rasped out, apparently changing his mind about his previous order to keep sucking no matter what.

She could tell he was almost beyond speech, hopefully beyond rational thought. But despite his request, she didn’t stop, didn’t even slow her pace. She merely
gave his sac a gentle pinch and shook her head as best she could.

With a groan, his abdomen went rigid, his shoulders pressed farther into the sofa back, and his hands finally came up off the couch to grasp her skull. His fingers tangled in her hair, digging against her scalp to both hold her in place and aid her movements now that he realized she was in it for the long haul.

She continued to suck with her entire mouth and circle inside with her tongue for several minutes more, until he was panting for breath, his hips thrusting off the couch faster and faster. The head of his cock hit the back of her throat, but she didn’t care. She didn’t let up on her speed or pressure.

She could hear the heavy scratch of his breathing and feel the tension building in his long frame. Then he bit out a harsh, “Jesus, I’m coming!” and his whole body went stiff in a wash of release.

She swallowed rhythmically, taking all of him, everything he had to offer, not pulling back until he was completely drained and his entire body had gone slack.

Pushing herself up with her hands on the tops of his thighs, she crawled onto his lap and leaned against his still-heaving chest. His head was tipped back, rolling bonelessly on his neck as his eyes cracked open to meet her gaze.

With the pinkie of her right hand, she slowly reached up to wipe the corners of her mouth.

He grinned at the wicked display, one arm coming up to curve around her back and tug her closer. His other hand rose to brush the hair away from her face and tuck a loose strand behind her ear.

“That was amazing, thank you. And feel free to do it again, any ol’ time you like.”

She thought about telling him he’d be lucky if she ever did it again—at least with him—but she was feeling too darn passive and pleased with herself to be snarky. Even with him.

So she settled on a noncommittal, “Mmm.”

The tips of his fingers skimmed along her skin. Down the side of her throat, over her shoulder, past the curve of her breast and waist, then back up.

It was gently arousing. Not the hot, fast, race-toward-completion sort they’d both experienced and shared so far in this . . . whatever it was they were doing together.

And though she thoroughly enjoyed the wham-bam stuff, this was nice, too. In fact, she thought she might be happy sitting here, just like this, for a good, long while.

At the same time he stroked her up and down, his lips began a light, pleasurable tour of her cheek, her jawline, her earlobe. She moaned softly, feeling her limbs go supple like taffy and a slow warmth build low in her belly.

“I suppose you’ll expect me to repay the favor,” he said softly against her throat.

Normally, she probably would have, but he’d caught her in a weak moment. She was feeling complacent and generous and not so much like keeping track of who did what to whom or whose turn it was to come next. Besides, the night was young, and if the last time Dylan fucked her was any indication, he wouldn’t leave her hanging.

“Nope,” she said, shifting slightly on his lap and letting her own fingertips trail through his soft blond hair.
“I’m in charge, remember? You don’t have to repay any favors, you only have to do what I tell you.”

His mouth quirked up at the corners, and a spark of humor lit in his eyes. “Are you going to tell me to repay the favor?”

An unexpected laugh rolled up from her diaphragm. “No. You did plenty the other night. I’m just waiting for you to revive a little . . .” She wiggled suggestively on his lap, delighted when she felt a telltale stirring on the underside of her thigh. “And then I thought I’d climb on board and ride you like a bronco at a rodeo.”

His lips twitched and a brow arched upward. “Done a lot of bronc bustin’, have you?”

Shifting back a few inches, she continued to straddle his hips, resting her butt near his knees and her hands on his smooth, broad shoulders.

“By the time I’m finished, you’ll be giving me an award for Cowgirl of the Year.”