Page 79 of Unleashed

And apparently I like lightning, because I end up moaning around his dick.

Blow jobs are about power. Control. Proving that at the end of the day, all it takes is a little spit and a few repetitive movements, and all men become whimpering little simps. I’ve always kind of gotten off on giving them.

But not like this.

Trevor’s hand comes to my face, one finger tracing the stretch of my lips around him. “Fuck, you’re pretty with my cock in your mouth.”

Why in the hell am I flattered? Worse, why does it make me try to take even more of him? Show him just how pretty I can be.

I think there’s something wrong with me.

It’s probably him.

And that problem just seems to get worse, because the motivation that initially brought us into this room only intensifies. It’s one I don’t remember having before. One I really freaking hope I never have again.

Because rewarding Trevor for being the kind of person who buys an entire petting zoo to make my sister happy can’t become a regular occurrence.

Now, the dick sucking part? I don’t mind that at all. But the warm feeling spreading through my insides over Trevor’s action needs to fucking quit. I don’t know what to do with it. How to smother it out.

The only option is to focus all of my attention on the task at hand. Pretend it’s just a regular blow job. That Trevor is just a regular man.

Even though he is doing everything he can to prove himself the opposite.

“I don’t like seeing you on your knees.” Trevor’s fingers slide across my cheek to spear into my hair. “Not even for me.”

Popping my mouth off his spit-slicked skin, I meet his eyes. “I really wish you would shut up.”

I need him to stop saying shit like that. Shit that makes me think he sees who I really am. That he appreciates me in spite of all the anger and annoyance I’ve chosen to carry for so long.

“No, you don’t.” Trevor smirks. “You like fighting with me just as much as I like fighting with you.”

I fucking hate that he’s right. I do like fighting with him. I like knowing I push him and he pushes right back, but never too hard. Because he’s not trying to knock me down. He’s proving I can’t shove him away, no matter how hard I try.

And I’ve tried. Over and over again.

I drag my tongue up the length of him, eyes narrowed on his face. “I hate you.”

“Sure you do.”

He grunts a little when I sink over him. Fisting tight, I work him with my hand, head bobbing along until he’s right on the edge. Then I drag my lips free, leaving him hanging.

I need to prove I’m still just as big of a pain in his ass as I’ve always been. I’ve gone through too much—fought too hard—to let my guard down. To let myself think I’ve found someone I can rely on.

All the air rushes from his lungs and a smile curves my lips. That’s right. I can still make him suffer. Can still aggravate him the same as I always have.

Even if I do feel a little bad about it.

Bad enough I accidentally wrap my lips around him again.

Bad enough I moan when he slides against my tongue.

Bad enough the hand not wrapped around him slips into the waistband of my jeans, trying to ease the ache between my thighs.

Bad enough I come when he does, swallowing down every drop as he tells me how perfect I am.

How smart.

How strong.