Heat gathers at the base of my spine at the contact, crazy-intense pleasure rocketing through me from all the different ways she’s touching me. All the different ways she’s making me insane. Normally I’m not very good at ceding control, but if this is the reward it gets me, I’ll hand control over to Jordan anytime she wants it.
“Is this okay?” she whispers against my skin. “Do you like it?”
I bark out a laugh. “Yes, yes, God, yes.”
Her lips are still pressed against my chest and I can feel her smile in my skin. “Good,” she murmurs, right before she drops to her knees in front of me.
I reach for her, try to pull her up. “Baby, you don’t have to—”
She swats my hands away. “I want to.”
And then she’s leaning forward, licking and nuzzling her way along my dick. “Fuck,” I say again, and it’s become my mantra. Become the only coherent sound I can still make. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
I don’t even know if I’m saying it out loud at this point or if it’s just in my head. And I couldn’t care less, not when Jordan’s on her knees in front of me, her beautiful mouth pressing kisses to my stomach, my balls, the tip of my cock.
I want to stay like this forever, want to feel her mouth on my dick every second of my existence. The way she leisurely licks her way along my length, her tongue soft and warm and so fucking talented, is my favorite thing ever. At least until she pulls my testicles into her mouth, gently sucking on them, and I lose even the ability to think fuck, let alone say it.
Some garbled noise comes out of my mouth as pleasure slams through me, and she laughs at me a little. Not that I care—I’m too caught up in the feel of her hands and lips and tongue to worry about anything else. Too caught up in the ecstasy tearing through me to do anything but stand here and let her have her way with me.
Pleasure sizzles along my nerve endings. Runs through my blood. Takes over my every organ, my every vein until all I can feel is her. Until all I can smell or taste or breathe is Jordan.
A little dizzy and a lot overwhelmed, I tangle my fingers in her hair in a desperate attempt to hang on to something. To hang on to her.
She glances up at me then, her lips red and swollen and obscene looking and I swear I almost come from the sight of her mouth alone. A problem that’s only exacerbated when I glance through the droplets on the shower door and realize I can see Jordan’s beautiful back reflected in the mirror over the double sinks.
I stare at our reflection for long seconds, watching my hands as they tangle in her long, glorious hair. Watching her back as it bows and bends with each brush of her body against my own. Watching her head as it bobs forward with each streak of her tongue across my cock.
Somehow it gets me even hotter, ratcheting up my desire for her another thousand degrees or so, until the need to come is a pressure on my spine and an ache in my belly.
In an effort to distract myself, I glance away from the mirror for just a few seconds. But it doesn’t do me any good because now I’m looking at her all spread out in front of me, watching that beautiful mouth firsthand as she leans forward and takes just the tip of my cock in her mouth.
A glance back at the mirror shows her back arched, her hand clenched on my hip, her jaw working as she sucks me slowly, slowly, slowly into her mouth. I honestly don’t know which view is better.
It’s incredible to see her like this, from the front and the back all at the same time. Incredible and intense and more arousing than I ever dreamed possible to see all of her even as I feel the wet heat of her mouth close around me.
Jordan pulls me deep, takes me all the way in until I feel myself hit the back of her throat. I try to pull back, try to make it easier for her, but she just cups my ass in her hands and pulls me forward. Pulls me even deeper until she’s taking all of me.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Pleasure slams through me, takes me over, encompasses me until all that I feel, all that I am, is centered around Jordan and her obscenely hot mouth. She’s barely gone down on me and already I’m so close to losing it that I can feel the pressure increasing at the base of my spine, can feel my orgasm welling up inside of me.
What is it about this woman that makes me want her this badly? What is it about her haunted eyes and don’t-fuck-with-me-attitude and moments of vulnerability that drive me to the brink so quickly? I don’t know, and at the moment, I don’t really care. How can I when I’m held in thrall by her and her glorious, gorgeous mouth.
She moans deep in her throat, and my teeth clench at the ensuing vibrations. Then she’s sliding her tongue over and around my cock in circles that make my eyes cross and my jaw lock at the pleasure.
I glance down at her, watch as she slides me back and forth between her cherry-red lips. Her eyes are closed, her long, dark lashes resting on her cheeks as she tucks the head of my cock against the roof of her mouth and once again slides me down her throat.
“Look at me!” My voice is low, guttural, more animal than human as I force the words out. But she must understand, because her eyes fly open and she looks up at me. Our gazes lock as she takes me deep again and again and again, her tongue licking along the underside of my dick. Pleasure explodes through me, sweeping up from my balls to the base of my cock, taking me by surprise as she sucks a little harder, her tongue wriggling over the sensitive spot on the underside of my dick.
“Fuck!” It’s a groan, a plea, a prayer for mercy, but Jordan is having none of it. Instead she takes me even deeper, her hands clenching on my ass as she works her throat convulsively around me.
And just that easily I’m coming, emptying myself into her with a force that makes my head swim and my teeth ache. I try to pull out, but she won’t let me go. Instead, she holds me in place, taking all of it, swallowing me down and leaving my knees so damn shaky it’s all I can do not to fall on her.
And still it isn’t enough. Still I want more. More of her and more of this mind-numbing pleasure. I’ve just had the most powerful orgasm of my life, just come down the throat of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, and all I can think about is doing it again.
But this is Jordan, smart, sexy, tentative Jordan, and the only thing I want more than to blow down her throat again is to make her feel as good as she’s made me feel.
With that thought in mind, I untangle my fingers from the death grip I have on her hair. I wrap my hands around her upper arms, then pull her carefully to her feet, searching her face for any sign that she’s uncomfortable with what just happened between us.
This isn’t how I thought this would go between us, isn’t what I had planned. I’d thought to take it slow, thought to give her so much pleasure that she forgot to be worried. Instead, she blew my mind completely, made me lose all thought-processes and control. Which, with another woman, might would be totally fine. But with Jordan…with Jordan, I just don’t know.
For the first time since she put her hands on me, I’m thinking clearly. And now that I am, I can’t help being afraid of what the consequences for all that pleasure might be.
Chapter 17
Jordan
I did it.
Maybe it’s a stupid thing to think at a time like this, but I can’t help it. It’s been three years since even the thought of giving a blow job didn’t make me sick, three years since I trusted a man enough to even contemplate letting him touch me let alone put his cock in my mouth. And yet here I am, with Nic, who is so hot and smart and kind that I can’t control my reaction to him. Can’t control my need to give him as much pleasure as I can.
In fact, if he’s up for it, I wouldn’t be averse to trying that again. In a bed this time.
Just the idea boggles my mind if I let myself think about it. Which I’m not going to. Instead, I’m going to give myself over to the spirit of whatever sex goddess has invaded my body tonight and just go with it. Especially when just the thought of making him come again has my sex growing wet and my fingers itching to touch him.
At least until Nic says, ??
?Hey,” and tilts my chin up so that our gazes meet. “You okay?”
With those words, the real world—the real Jordan—invades and the first sliver of unease works its way down my spine. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he just looks at me and there’s such compassion in his eyes, such understanding, that it freaks me out even more. He can’t know. He just can’t.
“No reason,” he finally says. “I just wanted to check on you. I got pretty rough.”
“Actually, I think I’m the one who got rough,” I tell him, snuggling against his chest and pressing kisses to the inside of his biceps. “Either way, I liked it.”
“Did you? Really?”
I did. Which, guaranteed, surprises me way more than it surprises him. But there was something about the way he needed me, something about the way he let me control the pace and what I wanted to do and how far I wanted things to go that got me going in a big way. It was nice not to be the powerless one. Nice to be the one in control, for once.
“Of course I did,” I tell him. “Wasn’t it obvious?”
“I just wanted to be sure. You were—”
He breaks off as the water goes from really hot to really cold in the space of about two seconds.
“Turn it off,” I shriek at him as my warm and toasty body is suddenly pelted with frigid water. “Turn it off, turn it off, turn it off!”
“I’m trying!” he says on a gasp, his hand working furiously at the shower faucets. Finally the water stops and we’re left staring at each other like two drowned rats.
“Umm, I think that’s our cue to exit,” Nic says, reaching for the fluffy black towel hanging over the edge of the shower and wrapping it around me.
“What about you?” I ask, even as I pull the towel more tightly around myself.
“I’m not the one whose teeth are starting to chatter,” Nic says as we step out of the shower together.
He grabs a towel off the nearby rack and gestures for me to bend over so he can wrap it turban-style around my head. Then he begins to dry me, starting with my shoulders and arms and continuing all the way down my body. He’s brisk and thorough, more utilitarian than sexual as he brushes the towel over my breasts and stomach and sex, and that makes it a million times easier to stand here and let him touch me. Makes me feel a million times less vulnerable than I should considering I’m naked and his hands are all over me.
Nic watches my face as he dries me, keeps his eyes focused on mine instead of on my body, and that helps, too. A lot. Then again, everything about him seems designed to make me feel more comfortable. I don’t get it, but I’m grateful for it nonetheless.
He’s on his knees in front of me now, drying my hips and thighs and calves with a concentration that seems much greater than the task warrants. Nic Medina is definitely a detail oriented guy.
The thought makes me run hot and cold at the same time as I imagine all that energy, all that focus, devoted to bringing me sexual pleasure. He’d been so in tune with me at the beach, so in tune with what made me feel good, that he made me come before I even knew it was a possibility. There’s a part of me that wonders if he’s gearing up to do the same thing tonight.
The thought is arousing and terrifying in equal parts, and as he finally gets back to his feet I find myself standing, frozen, in front of him. Nic doesn’t touch me though, doesn’t put those long, callous fingers on my body as a part of me is dying for him to do. Instead, he grabs a dry towel and wraps it around me, gently tucking the edges between my breasts.
Then he undoes the towel around my head and starts drying my hair with the same intensity he just gave my body.
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him, my voice husky with a combination of nervousness and desire. “I can manage if you want to dry yourself off.”
He’s still naked and wet and the combination is doing crazy things to my concentration. Not to mention my libido. A drop of water runs down the center of his chest and for a second I can think of nothing but licking it off him.
“You keep looking at me like that and we’re going to end up right back where we started, sweetheart.”
That actually sounds just about perfect to me. As long as I’m in control, as long as I’m the one doing the touching and tasting and licking, I think I’ll get through this just fine.
But when I reach for Nic, he moves away. “Not yet,” he whispers, dropping a kiss on my cheek before grabbing a brush from one of the drawers between the sinks. He also finally grabs a towel for himself, wrapping it around his waist, and I’m not sure whether to mourn or rejoice.
Then he’s taking my hand and leading me to the huge bed in the center of the room. He pulls the black comforter back revealing—big surprise—black sheets, before settling me on the edge of the bed and climbing in behind me.
My heart shoots to my throat. “What are you doing?” I demand, turning my head to track his movements. I trust him, I do, but the idea of any man being behind me—where I can’t see him—is terrifying. Even if that man is Nic.
“It’s okay,” he soothes as he wraps his legs around my hips and pulls my back to his chest. “I’m just going to brush your hair out so it doesn’t tangle.”
“Oh. Right.” I force myself to lean against him, force myself not to freak out even though every instinct I have is screaming for me to run, to get the hell out.
But this is Nic who’s wrapped around me, I remind myself determinedly.
Nic, who could have hurt me a dozen times in the last two days but has never been anything but kind.
Nic, with his gentle hands and soft eyes, who wants nothing more than to pamper me a little.
There’s nothing for me to freak out about. Nothing at all.
The first stroke of the brush through my hair has my shoulders tensing.
The second has my hands curling into fists on my lap.
The third has my jaw clenching until it aches and the fourth has me whimpering like a child. I wait for the fifth brushstroke, telling myself it’s almost halfway over. Telling myself I can handle it for just a little longer. Just a little longer.
But the fifth stroke never comes. Instead, Nic scoots out behind me before turning me to face him. “Why didn’t you tell me you don’t like having your hair brushed?” he asks.
His voice is calm and nonconfrontational, but still I can feel my cheeks heating with shame. Why can’t I be normal for him? I wonder frantically. Why can’t I just leave the past in the past and be like everybody else?
“It’s fine,” I answer, forcing a calmness into my voice that I’m far from feeling. “I don’t mind.”
“You don’t mind?” Nic raises a skeptical brow.
“No.” I swallow back the sudden bile rising in my throat. “I don’t.”
Nic studies me for long seconds, his eyes searching my face, my tense shoulders, my clenched hands. “You know that isn’t how this is going to go, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I get that you’re a private person and we haven’t known each other that long. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But you don’t get to lie to me, either.”
“I’m not lying.” The denial is instinctual.
“Oh, yeah?” He looks down at the brush in his hand. “You sure about that?”
Right now, I’m not sure about anything. My heart is pounding out of my chest and it’s taking every ounce of courage I have just to stay on this bed with him. But I am staying. I am seeing this through.
And maybe I should tell him the truth, tell him what happened to me. But I have a hard enough time thinking about that time. Just the thought of talking to anyone else about it, of recounting the details, makes my stomach churn. There’s no way I’m going to tell that story to Nic—or even admit that there’s something to tell.
So instead of doing what he asked, instead of being honest with him, I pick the brush up, run it though my hair a few times. “See. No big deal.??
?
And while it feels shitty to lie to him, I know it would feel a lot worse to tell him the truth.
Nic doesn’t look mollified in the slightest by my hairbrushing prowess. But he doesn’t say anything else as he grabs the brush from my hand and tosses it onto the floor at our feet. It makes a loud clatter as it falls, and—aside from our breathing—it’s the only noise in the now silent room.
Nic is staring at me, refusing to back down. I’m staring back at him, unsure of what to do or say that won’t make me look like a total head case. If that’s even a possibility right now…
He blinks first, running a hand over his face in a gesture of obvious frustration. But when he looks back at me, none of that frustration is in his face. Instead, there’s a tenderness that takes my breath away.
“Come here,” he tells me after a few moments, stretching out on the bed and holding his arm out for me to join him.
I do, carefully keeping the towel wrapped around me as I stretch out beside him and rest my head on his chest. Not that I think the towel will provide me any real protection if I need it—not that I’d be here if I actually thought I’d need it—but it makes me feel less vulnerable to have it covering me. I’m not great at being naked at the best of times, let alone when I’m lying on a bed with a man I’ve known for less than forty-eight hours.
I wait, warily, for him to try to get me to talk. But for long minutes, he doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, he just lays there, cuddling me, his fingers playing with the tips of my hair and his heart beating steadily beneath my ear. Eventually, I can’t help relaxing, my body molding itself to his a little more with each second that passes.
“Do you want to sleep?” he asks, after a little while.
To say that it’s not the question I was expecting is an understatement. “Do you?” I ask cautiously.