Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(87)

“That feels like a trick question.”

“It’s odd. It hasn’t exactly been my thing. Alfie used to complain that I didn’t do it enough.” My eyelashes flutter against his jaw. “But I think about going down on you all the time.”

He swears, sharp and unintelligible. The thumb circling my nipple stops, but his grip tightens.

“Conor, I just know that you would look so pretty, coming several inches down my throat, and—”

“You need to fucking—” He squeezes my hip so hard, there will be coin-sized bruises blooming there. I cannot wait to count them. “You need to stop. Please.”

I kiss his cheek, apologetic. “How long do you think you’d last?”

I think it might be an automatic reflex, the way his hand slams my core down, against the outline of his cock. His breath comes in quick, noisy puffs against my temple, and when I reach out I expect him to swat my hand away, but this time he lets me pull down the fabric and grip him. We stare at each other, chests rising and falling together. I push my underwear aside and run the head of his cock against my labia, then my clit. Feel how heavy he is, how hot and thick. My name is a deep grunt that travels through space and time.

His hands fist in the cushions.

“Okay?” I ask.

A rough exhale. “Yeah.”

I sit up. Arrange us. He’s hot and slippery against me. “I’ve never had sex without a condom,” I say, maybe to punt. This is going to be a lot, on multiple fronts.

“Me neither.”

“Would you like me to use one?”

There is genuine amusement in his laugh. “No, Maya.”

I smile. We’re being irresponsible, stupid, problematic. I don’t care. “No condom in your fantasies? Am I on birth control?”

“It’s…” His cheeks are scarlet. He looks in the middle distance. Admits, low: “Neither.”

And I can’t wait anymore. I let gravity and my weight take over, and slide down on him, taking several inches in one stroke.

“Jesus—slow.” His palms slide under my panties, grip my ass. “Slow the fuck down, or you’re going to—”

“I like it w-hen—” I try to speak. It comes out breathy and mumbled. “I like it when it hurts a bit. And I am in charge.”

Conor’s jaw twitches. He groans something about how unbelievable I am, wonders whether I’ve fallen from the fucking sky. His hands shake, but I’m too busy trying to adjust, and—

I lift myself up, down. The friction is heaven, and we both groan. Conor stares at me—face, tits, the place where my cunt clutches tight around him—like he doesn’t fully understand what is happening. Like he thought he knew the rules of the game, but just realized he had no idea what he’s playing.

“Do you want me to stop?” I ask, but I’m still bouncing on top of him, a little more than half of him inside me on the downstroke, inching deeper, feeling like a muscle that needs to be broken into, trained and opened. When he’s nearly all the way out, the length of his cock is suddenly wet and shiny. It turns me on beyond belief.

Judging by his grip on my waist: him, too.

“How do you even exist?” he asks, hushed. Sweat pearls over my skin, drips between my breasts. I cross my wrist around his neck, looking for support as I move on him. His gaze fixates on something past my shoulder. The wall mirror behind us.

He’s staring at us. At me. At my ass moving over him. “You like it?”

“Fuck,” he chokes out, and I drop a kiss onto his cheek.

“It’s okay. I know you do.” He’s in as far as he can go. “This is the most full I’ve ever been. And you have seen my dildos. Remember?”

“Christ.” His knuckles brush up and down my flank. Inside, he’s splitting me up, but his touch is butterfly-light. “I remember. I fucking remember.”

“Yeah?”

“Afterward, I told myself that it was a good thing. That maybe you enjoyed…that you’d be able to take me easier.”

My hold on him tightens, something close to a hug. There is pleasure here, smeared with the pain of the stretch. I wonder how I’ve managed to live without it so far. “Does anyone?”

“What?”

“Take you easily.”

He shakes his head.

“Good. I’ll be the one.”

His hand lifts to my cheek. “Maya, you already are.”

I come right there, suddenly, before he does. It’s like a natural disaster, violent and unsettling. Good, fucking biblical, even, but it rips me, tears me apart and bleaches my head white.

When my vision stops spotting, his breathing is racehorse-fast, mouth half-open. His hands are around my waist, thumbs resting on my hip bones.

“The hardest part of the last three years,” he says, words punched out of his lungs, “was knowing exactly what you look like when you come.”

I’m still twitching, little contractions around his cock. “You like making me come, don’t you?”

“I like everything about you.”

“I just want to return the favor, Conor. Is it too much to ask?” I squeeze him with my internal muscles. Watch him shudder. “Let me give you this.”

He shakes his head. “Harder.”