Make Me Sin

52

His c**k springs out into my hands. I gasp, astonished at the size, at how beautiful it is.

It’s a masterpiece. It deserves a painting, or at least a commemorative statue carved in marble, set out in a public square. If I wasn’t so stricken by lust, I’d want to grab a pencil and paper and sketch it, that’s how fantastic I think it is.

I wrap a hand around the thick base. I wrap the other hand above the first. Even with two fists around it, there’s still plenty of bare acreage on this baby. With a moan, I pounce on it. I take the crown into my mouth and suck.

The sound A.J. makes is so erotic I suck harder.

He shudders. His hips start to move. He says my name, his hands reaching for my head. His fingers settle lightly against my face, and he pushes my hair aside so he can watch me.

I take him as far into my throat as I can without gagging. Both my hands stroke him as he flexes his hips up and down, slowly f*****g my mouth. His hips start to move faster. His eyes are glazed with lust and pleasure. He’s making soft, helpless moans, watching my mouth and hands, my face.

He whispers, “You’re so beautiful. My beautiful little songbird. My angel.”

Thrilled by his words, I hum, and it makes him groan.

His eyes slide shut. His chest heaves as he pants, and he starts to buck against my hands and mouth. He’s close already.

I keep one hand wrapped around him, but take the other and gently cup his balls. They’re heavy in my palm, velvet soft. I fondle them as I continue to suck his head and shaft, my hand slipping up and down his throbbing length, squeezing and stroking.

His hands tighten on either side of my head. He hisses, “f**k baby yes baby feels so goddamn good.”

I open my throat and slide his c**k as far down it as it can go, which is about half of his length. His entire body stiffens. He jerks and comes into my mouth, groaning and swearing, roaring like an animal.

The neighbors upstairs pound on the wall again.

He’s still coming hard, grunting and twitching, his breath hissing in and out between his clenched teeth, all the muscles of his abdomen and arms flexed, his head tipped back into the pillow. I watch him, euphoric, feeling powerful and ridiculously self-satisfied and accomplished, as if I’ve just invented cold fusion or facilitated world peace.

Most of all, I feel incredibly feminine. I’ve just watched the sexiest man alive fall apart in my hands, and I want to purr in satisfaction.

A.J. collapses against the mattress as if he’s been flung there by some giant invisible hand. I swallow—something I’ve admittedly not been too keen on in the past but at the moment I adore—and swallow again, then gently lick him clean, lapping up his salty goodness.

“You taste like hazelnuts.”

His laugh is ragged. “You like hazelnuts, Princess?”

“I love them. They’re my new favorite food.”

His grin fades. He quickly grows serious, watching me lovingly clean every drop of what he’s given me off his shaft, his crown, my hands. Somehow there are even a few splatters on his abdomen, and I lick those off like a kitten with a bowl of cream.

I feel like Cleopatra. I feel like Helen of Troy. I feel like the most beautiful, sexy woman who ever walked the earth. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m on my knees, in the position I’m in, but right now this feels like the most powerful position in the world.

Then I suffer a little twinge of paranoia. My tongue falters. My hands fall still.

A.J. is used to having professionals do what I just did. Professionals with vastly more experience than I have in the area.

He doesn’t miss my sudden hesitation. “What’s wrong?”

“Was that . . . did I . . . um . . .”

It takes him a nanosecond to catch my drift. He grabs my arms, hauls me up his body, positions me on top of him, and starts to chuckle softly into my ear. “Are you asking if it was good for me, too?”

I hide my face in his neck. “Maybe. But don’t answer unless the answer is yes.”

He gives me a squeeze, laughing now. “Princess, it was f*****g epic. That blow job was a gold medal winner. I’ll dream about it every night for the rest of my life.”

Grinning, I look up at him. His eyes shine, amber and gilt in the shadows, bright beneath the dark chocolate curve of his lashes. His hair is mussed and his smile is soft, and he’s so handsome it hurts. My breath hitches, and my heart does this odd thing where it expands and contracts at the same time. I reach up and press my hand against his cheek.

“I’d like to give you one of those every night for the rest of my life.”

His laugh dies in his throat. His lips part, his brows draw together, the expression in his eyes turns haunted.

“No,” I whisper, recognizing that look. “Stay with me. Don’t go back into the dark.”

He closes his eyes. A low, soft sound of despair escapes his lips. Gathering me closer, he presses his lips to my forehead, and leaves them there.

Slowly, with as much gentle loving as I can put into a touch, I run my fingers over his chest, his biceps, his tense, corded forearm. I don’t know what to say, or if there’s even anything that could be said to help him, to take away whatever pain he’s so obviously in, so I try to convey with my touch that he’s safe with me. That I know he’s hurting, and, though I don’t know why, I’m here for him.

With all my heart, I want to be what makes him feel better. I want him to feel as safe with me as I do with him.