Make Me Sin

51

That heated stare of his sets off fireworks in my body. It’s as if my hormones are just waiting around for him to do something sexy, and the minute he does, they all leap to their feet and run around like kindergartners on a sugar high.

He firmly cups my jaw in his hand and growls, “Look at that f*****g look you’re giving me. How am I supposed to maintain my sanity when the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met is staring at me with big eyes that beg, ‘Please f**k me’?”

The most beautiful woman he’s ever met.

My hormones graduate from kindergarten and go straight to college, where they throw a toga party of epic proportions and burn down the dorm.

I moisten my lips. A.J. watches the motion of my tongue, and I feel his heartbeat kick up a notch. I also notice that his erection hasn’t flagged at all since he arrived. His mind might not be on board with whatever’s happening between us, but his body definitely is.

And oh, do I have plans for that body.

“Thank you for the compliment. I’ll assume that’s a rhetorical question. But I do have an idea.”

He watches me warily, his hand still firm around my jaw.

“How exactly would you define f*****g?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said you’d never f**k me. But you just went down on me, and I’m lying here butt naked on top of you, so I’m trying to get a better grasp of the exact parameters of our little . . . situation.”

One side of his mouth curves upward. His lids lower so his eyes are practically slits. “You trying to negotiate with me, Princess?”

I wrinkle my nose. The word “negotiate” makes me feel a little gross, especially in light of how his dates usually begin.

“No. I’m trying to determine if this, for instance, is allowed.” I press my lips against his, softly, no tongue.

He watches me from beneath his lowered lids. “That’s allowed.” His voice is husky. His hand drifts down from my jaw to my neck. For some reason, I find his light grip around my throat unbearably sexy.

“Okay. And this?” I kiss him again, but this time suck his lower lip into my mouth. He doesn’t resist, so I kiss him deeper, exploring his mouth with my tongue. His fingers tighten around my neck.

“That’s allowed, too,” he breathes when I pull away and look at him.

I nod. Without breaking eye contact with him, I lower my head and press a kiss to his chest. It’s feather light, right above his heart. I wait for his answer, my heart beginning to pound.

“Allowed.” He swallows. His voice is getting lower and lower.

Trying not to make any sudden moves, I ease myself down his body a foot or so, careful to balance my weight on my hands on the mattress on either side of his waist. As I move, my breasts skim against his chest. He inhales sharply, and I freeze.

He doesn’t do anything, so I press my lips to his abdomen. It’s as hard as rock, without an ounce of fat, tattooed and so sexy I just want to bite it. In fact, I want to sink my teeth into his biceps, his shoulders, his thighs, everywhere. I’m starving for him. I want to gobble him up. I want to taste every part of his body, every inch of his skin.

I lick a languid circle around his belly button, dip my tongue into the little depression, and suck.

Beneath my mouth, his muscles contract, quivering. His hands settle on either side of my head. They’re trembling. I fall still, waiting.

After a moment, he whispers, “Allowed.”

The feeling of power that surges through me is heady. When I glance up, he’s staring at me, eyes hooded. All the humor is gone. Now there’s only need.

Holding his gaze, I move my lips to a spot about half an inch above the waistband of his jeans. I press my mouth to his skin. His lips part, but he doesn’t make a sound. So, still looking into his eyes, I kiss a soft, slow path right down to the denim, then slide my tongue just under the waistband.

He’s frozen. I’m not even sure if he’s breathing.

I lay my hand over the bulge in his jeans. Slowly, I stroke my hand up and down its twitching, hard length. I move my mouth to the pulsing crown at its tip, and suck, right through the denim.

A.J.’s groan is ragged.

“Allowed?” I ask, watching him. I give his erection a squeeze, and the muscles in his stomach contract.

“Chloe, f**k, Princess—”

“Say yes, A.J.,” I softly demand, rubbing my hand up and down, squeezing and stroking.

He lies there, tense, panting, the occasional moan working from his throat as I continue my torture. But I won’t go any further without his permission. I won’t push him more than this.

He has to ask me for it.

He drops his head against the pillow, closes his eyes, and utters a soft, surrendering cry. “Yes please God please Chloe give me your mouth baby I need you so f*****g bad—”

I rip open the fly of his jeans, and he’s free.