Page 70 of The Cruiser
The wrong thing to agree to, in retrospect. Back door amps my libido and the dual pressure builds into a diabolical force. My hands claw uselessly on the slick stainless steel, then paw at his hair. He shakes free of my grasp, muttering he needs to concentrate, and I shudder with the thrill of knowing nothing but epic release is enough for him. So, I lie back and surrender to his carnal ways. Through half-lidded eyes, the kitchen starts to blur, reality fading. I want to forget it all, forget who I am, burn into nothing and rise from the ashes transformed into someone else.
My feet curl, blood hammering in my ears. “Yes, yes,” I moan. “Fuck, yes!”
The tsunami of pleasure crests and rips through me in long, racking shudders. I bite my lip so hard it draws blood and I’m surprised I don’t crush his head; that’s how tight my thighs clamp around him. He shows me the side of him that has no mercy, lashing and probing until my cries weaken into whimpers.
I’m a quivering shell of a woman when he rises to his feet. He steadies himself against the counter and his eyes tell me he’s not even here right now. He’s in between worlds, like me, spinning.
But it can’t end here.
My needs border on maniacal. I need him to ruin me and finish the deed.
I am plated and ready to be sauced.
“Can you?” I ask.
Wiping his mouth, he mutters, “I don’t have anything.”
What?
My condom stash is on the seventh floor, light years away. I’m achy and melting and want nothing more than the full pleasure of him driving deep into me. But I’m also smart enough to know the consequences.
Time for plan B.
“Then let’s switch. Pants down.” I lower myself off the counter, legs wobbly but holding. Morgan stands there with a dazed look on his face. Finishing me off seems to have finished him off. I unbuckle his belt, whip it off and unzip him. “Let’s go, sailor.”
“I think you mean captain,” he says, reasserting his authority as he shimmies his pants and briefs down around his ankles. His naked shaft stands glorious and tall, a thick vein throbbing angrily along the length.
“Whatever.” I wrap my fingers around him and let my tongue do damage with wet, slow circles on his tip.
“Fuck!” He groans and falls back against the counter. “I’m not going to last a minute.”
Turns out a five-gallon bucket isn’t handy for the angles I need so I kick it away, spreading my legs to steady myself. I’m prepared, unlike last night, for how completely he fills my mouth. My jaw relaxes, calibrating to the weight and girth.
“Oh, Vandana,” he mutters. “You feel so good.”
I like how he doesn’t manipulate my head, forcing himself deeper. There’s no need.
I got this.
I ease into my rhythm, bring him to the boiling point in no time. It’s like an oven in here with no circulation, his male musk spiking with my rising tempo. The muscles of his thighs turn rock hard with tension, balls tightening.
It never hurts to go a little deeper.
When I do, his breathing turns into short, erratic puffs. Something inarticulate gurgles out of his mouth. When I find his eyes, they’re helpless and uncomprehending.
God, I love a man on the edge.
His dick swells, testing the depths of my throat.
And then I hear … my name?
Through fluttered eyelids, it makes no sense. Tiny spasms flicker around Morgan’s mouth, clamped shut to prevent an ungodly howl.
I must be hearing things.
Then, the brisk, efficient voice of Sylvie rings out a second time.
“Mademoiselle Hillman?”
