My nipples ache, rubbing against my bra. It pisses me off. It leaves me breathless. Our mouths break apart and mine presses to his throat, nipping and licking the salty, delicious skin there.
The button on his pants is stubborn as I try to work it open, caught tight against the pressure of his straining cock. I sob in frustration against his neck, and his fingers leave me. He bats my hands away and pops the button in moments, then drops his pants and kicks off his boots.
He . . . isn’t wearing underwear.
My breath hisses between my teeth. He’s thick and huge—bigger by far than anything I’ve ever had inside me before. My core throbs needily, missing his fingers and protesting the loss of the quick brink he’d brought me to. His eyes gleam as he takes in my expression, and he roughly shoves my dress the rest of the way down. My hair’s escaping from my bun, the tendrils teasing my breasts and shoulders.
“Get down,” he says, and his gravelly voice grazes over me deliciously.
Down?
At my confusion, Jaykob snorts, grabs a pillow off the bed and drops it to the floor in front of him, tugging me down.
Oh.
The thick, bold length of him is thrust in front of me. A wet drop glistens from the tip, and I can’t look away, unwillingly fascinated. My breasts feel trapped and sensitive, and my body still aches, shivering with need. But trepidation trips over me.
The one time I tried this, I nearly lost my lunch.
“My way,” he reminds me, his voice barely more than a growl. I look up and he’s watching me with that mean, knowing smirk again. “The others might be sucked into the big save-me eyes, ladies-first bullshit. But I’m the real feminist, princess.
Equal opportunities.”
He grasps himself at the root and tangles his other hand in my bun. He rubs the tip over my lips, smearing the dewy drop across my mouth. He doesn’t try to thrust past my defenses though—for all his talk, he gives me a moment. Inhaling through my nose, I realize he doesn’t smell bad at all, not like Henry did. Slightly musky, his natural scent is stronger here, but it’s far from unpleasant. Clean and very Jaykob.
Tentatively, my tongue darts out, tasting the essence he’s marking me with. It’s slippery, a little tangy, but surprisingly free of flavor. Startled, my eyes fly up and the pure, unadulterated lust in his face brings the banking heat in me back to a full storm.
Hesitantly, I open my mouth to him as he rocks his hips forward. He gives me just a moment to adjust to his size, my jaw straining, before filling my mouth more fully. My glasses slip down my nose, and, with a sound of derision, he plucks them off my face and tosses them on the bedside table. I yelp my disapproval, my teeth scraping him just slightly in warning. His hand tightens in my hair.
“Now that ain’t very nice, Miss Manners. Put those away.”
I make a helpless sound against him, and he groans.
“Move your tongue, princess. Lick me. Neat and tidy ain’t gonna work; get it nice and wet.” Very small rocking motions accompany his growled instructions, and I find myself obeying.
He’s hot and hard and full in my mouth and, far from hating the taste, I’m shocked to realize I love it. The friction of his movements against my sensitive, soft lips has me writhing and my lids fluttering closed. My lips still don’t come close to his pumping hand at the base of his dick.
“Open your eyes. Look at me.”
I do, and the angry pleasure on his face fills me with a strange confidence. I made him look like this. He presses a little deeper, but not quite far enough to set off my gag reflex.
“Spit on your hand.”
He pulls out abruptly, leaving a trail of my saliva along his cock. A part of me wants to get a washcloth. A bigger part wants to rub myself against him and beg him to fill me with that hard, glossy length until I forget how to talk. He grabs my arm and brings my hand to my face.
“Spit.”
Scowling at him, I spit a small drop into my palm and cringe. Rolling his eyes, he spits over the top of my droplet, coating my palm. I squeak in horror, but he pulls my hand to his cock, wrapping it around the base. Placing his hand over mine as he leans back to watch me, he tightens my grip and pumps. The muscles on his chest ripple, making his tattoos come alive.
I stare at him, dazed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so erotic. My slickness drips down my thighs.
“Move your hand while you suck me,” he orders.
With far less hesitation this time, I bring my mouth back to him, taking him as deep as I can and running my tongue along the underside. He hits the back of my throat and lets out a muffled snarl, the sound going right to my clit. I move my hand, keeping it tight like he showed me, meeting my sliding mouth with my fingers. Tears prick my eyes, and I remember to breathe through my nose, drinking in the musky scent of him and getting off on the blatant enjoyment he’s getting from me. I test my rhythm, finding what makes him shudder.
I am doing that to him.
And it’s making me so, so wet.
After a few minutes, I begin shifting, rubbing my thighs together. Bringing my other hand down, I part my swollen folds and touch myself. I don’t do it often—my strait-laced upbringing muffling the pleasure I might have found in it—but under Jaykob’s hungry gaze, my usual rules fly out the window.
My unpracticed rhythm on my hot, wet clit doesn’t bring the same pleasure that Beau or Jasper commanded from my body, but the small ripples are enough to throw off the rhythm of my mouth. Seeing my distraction, Jaykob yanks my hand away from his cock and wraps both his hands in my hair. My bun is almost entirely loose now.
“Slap my legs if you need me to stop.”
My eyes widen as his speed picks up, and he starts thrusting into my mouth, controlling the angle with his hands. He doesn’t take it too deep, mostly easing back from the back of my throat, but rubs himself into the scorching softness of my cheeks, the roof of my mouth. In and out until my lips are coated in saliva and he makes a wet slap with every thrust.
I don’t want to stop him. Hands free, I touch my breasts, freeing the clasp at the front and pinching my aching nipples, rolling them until the prick of pain make my core clench. My other hand works faster around my slick clit, and I moan around his cock.
He pulls back and picks me up as though I weigh nothing. To him, I probably don’t. Flipping me, he pushes me face down into the bed, using the pillow that had been under my knees to prop up my waist. My feet are planted on the floor, and his hand on my back keeps my face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air and completely exposed to him. Then I realize my hand is trapped—with the pillow where it is, I can’t touch myself.
“Asshole!” I swear at him, and I don’t even flinch at the curse word. I’m too hot and damp and hungry and so, so close. My hips shift restlessly, but there’s nowhere for me to go.
A hand comes down hard on my right ass cheek. “Shut it, sugar.”
The bright sting of pain is almost enough to send me over the edge.
Before I can squirm into a more accessible position, he grasps my panties and rips them through on one side. They flutter to the floor. His hands part my legs further and then his mouth is on me.
Scorching hot, his lips part over my aching center, his tongue tunneling obscenely through my drenched folds. The old me, the me before this mindless sex-crazed version, wants to protest, conscious of the view he must have, of my scent, my taste, but all that comes out is a ragged, keening cry. His tongue flicks over my clit, then thrusts in and out of the most intimate part of me.