Willing Sacrifice
Page 15

She’d never thought about wanting to be marked by a man. Or even about owning him. She owned her subs, commanded them, at the club, but outside, she was Janet. She stood alone, confident in that solitary strength and power. She told herself this was want, not need, but she couldn’t deny the sharpness of the one was such she could easily mistake it for the other.
He pushed his tongue deep inside, stroked her silken tissues while suckling her clit on the outside, then started lashing that tiny bud of swollen flesh, a concentrated flogging that had her rising up to his mouth. His hands were strong on her legs, her hips, the muscles taut along his shoulders and back. She let go of the netting to reach down and grip his short hair, hold him to her, tug, convey her desires. He growled in response.
She arched back as he did something else that changed the waves of sensation, making it a spiral, then a staccato pressure, then a slow glide. She was moaning, and it didn’t matter, she didn’t want to rein back her response. She wanted him to know how much pleasure he was giving her.
His fingers bit into her buttocks, beginning to knead, press the cheeks together, massaging the sensitive area in between with the pressure, and that arrowed right down into her pussy. Her legs tightened on those broad shoulders, and she imagined what he must look like from a view above, his ass likely moving in that instinctive coital rhythm with hers, even though their joining point wasn’t cock and pussy, but his mouth between her legs, his hands clamped on her body, so she twisted and writhed within the span of his glorious hands.
Another rolling wave of sensation, and she felt the crash coming. She lifted up to meet it, her arms spread wide, clinging to the net again, her breasts lifted up with the arch of her body. She caught a glimpse of him looking, taking in the sight of her, and when he thrust deep with his tongue, pulled even harder on her clit, she knew he was monitoring everything, how close she was. When to take her that last step and then cut the lines, let her fly.
This time it was twice as intense, and not short at all. She cried out, long, moaning wails as the orgasm gripped her. Her fingers gripped the netting so fiercely it cut into her flesh. She could feel everywhere he touched her, mouth, fingers, his shoulders against the inside of her thighs. She wanted him on top of her, wanted to feel him.
The climax was ebbing, and she let go of the netting, clawed at his shoulders, telling him. He slid up her body and met her mouth with an impact that pushed her head back, his fingers framing her face, delving into her hair, elbows planted on either side of her shoulders, holding her down with the length of his body. Her hips jerked, still reacting to the climax, rubbing against him. The change in position had let his cock stretch into its intended upright stiff position, and the thick, rigid weight of it was against her abdomen. With his slacks and briefs pulled partly off, it would be a simple thing, that one last step.
But he merely kissed her. All that sweet need in her met the raw demand in him, their bodies melded together, quivering, held in a powerful stasis. When he at last lifted his head, his face was all harsh planes, eyes dark slashes in the night. She lifted a hand to him, and he closed his own around her wrist, pushing it back to the truck bed, holding it with her pulse battering against his palm. “Let go of me, Max,” she whispered.
He took his time thinking about it, nuzzling her throat, rubbing his jaw against her hair. But then he released her, and she put her arm around his broad back, tracing the lines of muscle. He worked his way back down her body, gentle kisses that brought her back to earth as if she were borne on the wings of butterflies. She turned her head to the foam mat, eyes closed, merely feeling.
He kissed his way down her thighs, then put his mouth on her cunt, cleaned her, slow licks and teasing kisses, small sips to take away the fluids from her climax. She made soft sighs in response, and then he was kissing his way down the inside of the opposite thigh.
When he reached her ankles, he straightened onto his knees to adjust his slacks and the boxers beneath. He brought them both back up to his waist but left the slacks unhooked. Then he settled onto his heels and ran his hands up her calves. Learning her curves, enjoying her body but giving her enjoyment as well. His strong hands caressed areas many men forgot to tease and seduce as much as their more preferred parts of a woman. He ran his touch all the way up her legs, covering knees and thighs, then came back down to do the same thing all over again, starting at the arches of her feet.
Max grounded her and sent her floating at once. Eventually he unfastened the skirt so he could slide his hands unencumbered from her hips to her rib cage under her thin cotton shirt, give her the sensation of that same, strong rubbing glide, both a caress and a massage.
The cool night air was starting to seep into her skin, but he anticipated that as well. Bracketing her rib cage with both hands, he slid her up and worked the camo quilt out from under her, sandwiching her between that and the covered padded roll beneath. He joined her under it, pulling her close so she could wrap around his heat, lay her head on his chest. He stayed propped up against the netting, stroking her hair.
Her hand rested on his abdomen. When she let it ease downward, wanting to touch the sizeable erection available through the unhooked front of his slacks, he closed his fingers over hers, bringing them back up to his mouth. She tilted her head to look at him.
“Max, I want to touch you.”
“Just let it be this tonight. Let it be all about you.”
She arched a brow at him, tapped his lips with her nail. “Me touching you is about me. I did say I want to touch you. Should I make it a command?”
His gaze kindled, reminding her that he was still a very aroused male who’d not yet been sated. Not by a long shot. “Give it a try,” he encouraged, his voice low. “It’ll make me harder.”
“Shut up while I touch you,” she said. Though he bit her finger, he let her hand go.
Sliding back down that same terrain, she was aware of his heated breath on the back of her neck as she bent her head to her desired task. The advantage of slacks was the same thing that had made them a disadvantage at the club, when she wanted a better look at his reaction. The fabric had enough give that it wasn’t difficult to get her hand back beneath them. She worked her hand under his boxer briefs, not content to settle for merely feeling the shape of him through cloth. “Unzip them the rest of the way,” she said shortly, not willing to remove her other hand from where it curved behind his lower back.
He reached down, complied, and she helped, holding the fabric taut with two fingers as the teeth parted over the impressive mound. As she pushed her hand all the way beneath the briefs, his fingers caressed her forearm, then withdrew. When she closed her grip around that steel heat, his thigh muscles flexed, his heart ramping up its beat beneath her ear. She’d handled a man’s cock plenty of times before, but the first time could be as potent as a first kiss, if approached in the right frame of mind. She hadn’t put any thought or preparation into it. She’d just wanted to touch him, and as a result it was like having a hunger sated—or discovered—to grip him now.
Glancing up, she saw him watching her. Under her gaze, he deliberately stretched out a long arm, hooked his free hand in the netting. His other hand remained against her back. When she twisted her head, giving it a look, then glanced back at him pointedly, he didn’t immediately respond, obviously weighing what he might do.
“Max,” she purred. “Do it.”
He moved the other hand then, both sets of fingers now hooked in the net, letting her do as she would. She kept her eyes on him as she slid her grip up to the head of his cock, rubbing her thumb across his wet slit. She wanted to taste that fluid and she did, lifting the finger to her mouth. His jaw got tighter, his eyes hot.
“All about me,” she murmured. “Why is that, Max?”
“You know a better way to be sure I get a second date?”
She laughed, though there was a bite to it, a showing of her teeth, that conveyed she wasn’t relaxing the terms of the moment. She liked seeing him restrained by her words, though still free to pounce. She preferred to be a lion tamer, letting the deadly animal make his own choices, held back only by her wits and words. She liked the thrill of being caught between his hunger for her, his own natural instincts, and a thin veneer of control, so blended he couldn’t tell what was hers and his.
“Is it that difficult to get a second date with me?”
“Yes ma’am. You haven’t had one date in the time I’ve known you.”
“Perhaps I’m a very private person who doesn’t let anyone know my personal business.”
He didn’t say anything, just looked at her. She hadn’t denied it, so it confirmed what he already knew. A very smart lion indeed. It hadn’t been just in the time he’d known her though. It had been far, far longer. In that time, nothing had ever been offered to her that would give her more than what the club sessions and her own vibrator could.
She used the point of her wrist to hold the slacks down so she could see her fist, wrapped firmly around his base. His cock jutted well above her grip, showing he was a good length and thickness. No woman would have to ask if he was all the way in when he was seated inside her. The flesh between her legs, still sensitive and moist, rippled at the thought. She loosened her grip enough to slide up, bringing some of that velvet skin with her, rubbing her thumb along the sensitive area beneath the head, and his breath drew in.
She knew how to get a man off, for certain. Now she entertained herself with a few slow pumps up and down, dragging her palm over the skin, not holding it too tightly, teasing the corona with her nails, giving him the sharp tip of her thumb nail in the slit once, making him quiver. She’d like to see him naked, see the veins in those well-muscled thighs become more prominent as he resisted movement.
Turning her attention to his face, she shifted farther forward so she was still resting on her hip, still holding him, but her breasts were pressed against his chest, nipples prominent through the thin fabric of her cotton shirt so he’d feel their tautness against his own flesh. She was close enough to be kissed, but she held there, that small space between them as she constricted her grip, did another firm glide upward, downward.