Before I can reply, his mouth is on me, that talented tongue swiping over my clit. I sigh with relief, sinking back onto the bed. I take a deep breath, letting my legs fall open as he goes down.
“That feels good,” I tell him. “Don’t stop—”
This man holds nothing back. I don’t think he knows how. If he’s in, he’s all in. I can only imagine the level of concentration and professionalism he brings to his game. He ravages me with his tongue, flicking and sucking, learning what makes me gasp and what makes me press against him, desperate for more.
My first orgasm coils tight in my core. God, he’s good. I’m right there, and it’s been all of two minutes. That warming feeling spreads out from my clit until my whole body is humming. I feel it down to my toes.
“Oh god—so good—right there—more—”
He presses in with two fingers, his tongue working double time against my clit, and I’m gone. I arch my back, hands fisting the sheets, muttering nonsense as I tip over the edge. My pussy clenches tight around his fingers, and he groans with longing, rubbing just right along my front vaginal wall. Meanwhile, my clit vibrates, the waves of my orgasm crashing against me.
In moments I go limp, my body shaky and warm as I come down.
He slides his fingers out of me, leaning up over me with need in his eyes, his face still buried between my legs. “Suck,” he says, his wet fingers tracing my lips.
My core flutters as I curl forward, sucking his fingers into my mouth. I taste my own release, tangy and warm.
“What a good fucking girl,” he croons.
I shiver. I typically like to be the one giving the praise, but coming from this sweetheart, it feels dirty and I love it. I love being his good girl. I love earning his praise. I want more.
I flip my legs off his shoulders and sit up.
“Was that good for you?” he asks, his dark brows raised in eagerness.
His earnest, puppy dog look is too much. I cup his face with both hands and pull him forward, pressing my mouth to his. I don’t care that his lips are still wet with my release. In fact, it turns me on. He tastes like me. Even if only for one night, this beautiful man is mine.
I break our kiss, brushing his hair off his brow. “Tell me something,” I murmur. “Anything.”
His smile lights him up inside as he kisses my chin, my cheek. “I play defense,” he replies, leaving it there. It’s enough to confirm my pro athlete suspicion, but not too much to give away his sport or his team. Our anonymity remains intact.
I mean, if I wanted to I could google all the pro sports teams and look for him, but that feels like breaking the rules. I decide to offer him another crumb. “I already knew that.”
He stills, keeping his hands on my breasts as he lifts his mouth off my chest. “What—how?”
I smile, kissing the tip of his nose. “I read it all over your body the second I laid eyes on you.” At his look of confusion I add, “My specialty is sports medicine.”
His eyes go wide. “Oh, shit—do you work for a team? Which one—”
“Ah-ah.” I place two fingers over his lips. “No more job talk. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep having sex.”
He huffs, rolling his eyes, as he rocks back on his heels and stands. The new angle puts me at face level with the massive bulge in his boxer briefs. “Oh, yeah? And what does my dirty-talking Mystery Girl want next?” he asks, his fingers combing through my tousled hair.
My hands are already smoothing up his thighs, brushing the bottom hem of his briefs. He groans, his hand tightening in my hair. I drag with my nails over the fabric up to his hipbones and he lets out a shiver. “Don’t play with me, baby girl. I’ll happily stay in this room giving you what you need all night. I’ll eat that pussy like it’s my goddamn job. Say the word, and I won’t get off my knees.”
I can’t hide my smile. See? He’s a giver. Apparently, he’s a talker too, and I’m here for it. My greedy pussy squeezes tight with excitement as my fingers brush over the waistband of his briefs, giving them a playful tug. “And if I want more than your mouth?”
He groans again, fisting my hair tight. He tips my head back, gazing down at me. “When these briefs come off, it’s all over. You don’t know the meaning of the word stamina until you’ve been with me. I will fuck you senseless and you’ll beg me for more.”
Oh, thank god.
I tug at his briefs again, ready to see him unleashed, but he stops me, both hands grabbing my wrists.
“Wait—tell me again you want this,” he says, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. “Tell me you want…me.” He almost winces once the words are out, his hands loosening on my wrists. I don’t think he meant to say that out loud.
I sit back, looking up at him, my hands still on his hips. I feel him like he’s part of me. I feel his excitement, his nerves, his need. There’s no way this sweet golden retriever isn’t a ladies’ man. He’s way too talented for this to be his first time. No, everything about him screams experience.
So why the nerves? Why this hesitation? From the moment we paid the bill, he’s been putting up speed bumps, when all I wanted to do was drive us at 100mph straight to Pound Town. I study him, my mind racing. This is different for him somehow. Why is he doubting if I want him? At what point have I given him that impression?
Then it hits me.
He’s never done this before.
Oh, I’m sure he’s done hookups. What pro athlete hasn’t taken advantage at some point in their career? Women quite literally throw themselves at these men every day of the week. But when they do, they know who the men are…or at least, they know their number, their position, their salaries and signing bonuses.
The more aggressive girls will even know their stats—and I’m not talking about their playing stats. Some of these crazies run entire websites dedicated to a player’s hookups. They’ll share info on what he likes. Does his cock have a kink in it? Does he like his girls shaved or natural? Does he go down?
It’s demeaning and gross, but it’s part of the life. The guys just have to get used to it and learn to be really careful. The groupies don’t care about the athletes. They only care about getting what they want—a few days or weeks of being pampered, some free gifts, access to exclusive clubs and parties.
Is that what he thinks this is for me? Am I using him like a groupie?
No way.
I don’t know his name or his sport. I don’t know his salary. And I’m not asking for anything. I would never do that. Hell, I’m still in bimonthly therapy from being raised in a similar environment. That’s what happens when your father is a world-famous rock star. Just one more reason I like my anonymity when it comes to my hookups. We still share a last name, and the press can be relentless and cruel. I’ve learned the hard way how to keep my head down and avoid all that spotlight-sharing bullshit.
I glance back up at the beautiful man standing so close to me. He wants me. He wants this. But he wants more. He doesn’t want to be used. And he’s feeling out of control. I’ve been the one driving this car from the start.
Oh god, he feels like the groupie.