Page 32 of Dirty (Chicago Underground 5)
He placed openmouthed kisses on my skin. “You deserve all of that.”
I groaned in lust and apprehension as he reached the crease below my belly. “I don’t know.”
“Say no if you don’t want it. I’ll stop.” Though it didn’t feel like he would when he pulled off my shorts and spread my thighs, his hands like iron bands holding me open. It didn’t feel like he was capable of stopping or hearing me at all, when he licked and sucked at my cunt as if he were starving, dying, and could think of no better way to go. I bucked into his mouth, my body confused, caught between sensitivity and arousal, between overexposure and never having enough.
Rough groans escaped me, animalistic sounds of pain and pleasure, nothing like the sexy moans I could make on command. I grabbed at the sheets, searching for something to anchor me. There was no seduction from either one of us, only desire. There was no teasing, only taking. I took pleasure from his mouth, and he took all my reserve, all my fear and loneliness, leaving only wild abandon and a sense of pure acceptance.
His fingers pushed inside me, rocking, working their way between tender flesh, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think of anything but the sharp ache he drew forth. Then his mouth was over my clit, and his hands rough and insistent, and I tumbled off the cliff, crying out in wordless relief. I could feel my inner muscles clench around his fingers, pulling at them in an attempt to bring him deeper. Even as my body floated in blissful stupor, I wanted him inside me.
He rested his cheek against my hip for a moment before sliding off beside me. Rolling to my side, I examined him. My orgasm softened my vision, as if I were seeing him in a dream. His eyes were closed, the angles of his face more distinct from the darkness and his arousal.
I peeled the clothes from his body with a foreign sense of wonder. I had done this so many times but never with him. He stayed passive for my perusal, taut with arousal but too conscious to rush me, too kind to force me. His body was corded with bands of muscle, a sinewy sculpture dusted with light brown hair. As I tugged his briefs down his hips, his erection hung heavy over his lean stomach, thick and dark.
I reached over and stroked a finger from tip to base.
“Don’t,” he gasped.
I smiled lazily, echoing his words. “Do you need me to stop?”
“God, no. Just go slow. I’m so fucking close.”
I fisted his cock, relishing the burn of his hot, silky skin against my palm. He sucked in a breath. I stroked him with the same rhythm he had used on himself. He bucked and moaned, delirious in a matter of seconds.
His hand enclosed mine for two strokes and then fell back onto the bed. His head fell back too as he ceded control to me. I could see the struggle in the lines of his neck, in his teeth, in his lip, in the grunts that matched each downward stroke of my hand. But he must have thought it was important to give me this power, and so I resolved to use it well.
Leaning over, I flicked my tongue over the tip of his cock, tasting saltiness and sex as he pushed up into my fist. I let him linger there, the head of his cock glistening and begging for more. I gave another quick lap at the slit to match another downward thrust. Again and again, I exacted sweet revenge for some nameless slight. For bringing me to this point where I wanted his arousal more than his release. Where I wanted to hold him at the brink for eternity, if only to see his eyes saturated with lust and desire and need.
I varied my licks—at the tip, riding the vein along the side, at the base where his cock met his groin. A tease, all of it, trying to see how far I could push him, how much he would take. It seemed limitless, his agony, as he staved off his climax. This wasn’t the pleasurable pastime in the shower but a fight, a struggle—an exercise in torture and devotion.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he chanted under his breath.
I loved that he swore during sex. He would occasionally swear around me but was for the most part very respectful. Fuck respectful. I wanted his coarseness, his crudity, every dirty thought he ever had.
“Do it,” I whispered.
“I don’t—” He gave up midsentence—gave up pretending not to know, not to want, not to dream of owning me the way I dreamed of being owned. With his hand behind my head, he guided me to the tip, not to lick or suck him, but to take all of him, to swallow him down. I moaned with my mouth full of his flesh and felt his balls tighten under my caress.
Even in this, I wouldn’t give in too easily. I went slowly, laving my tongue along the underside but without the proper rhythm to bring him to orgasm. It was far too early to submit completely. He understood what no other man ever had—for me, pleasure was freely given, easily bought. It was the withholding that measured my trust, and the permission for him to bring me in line.
He nudged my head down, and when I acquiesced, he did it again, over and over, until he let out a choked sound and released warm, salty cum onto my tongue. I caressed him softly with my tongue as he shuddered through his climax, his hands tangled in my hair, grasping and reaching as if he couldn’t get close enough.
I felt languorous from making him come, more gratified by his pleasure than my own. I climbed up his body and rested my chin on the ridges of his abs.
“Well, did you survive it after all?” My voice came out husky.
After a moment, he said, “No. Not ever, Jesus.”
Which wasn’t really a complete or coherent sentence but felt just about perfect. We dozed in bed. By which I meant, he fell asleep almost immediately, a stuttered snore emanating from him. Typical man. But I didn’t have to wake him so he could tip me or anything, so I felt pretty good about it.
Instead I could lie there and overthink everything. Was that part of the typical, noncommercial sex experience?
What did we just do? I asked myself, even though the faint saltiness on my tongue was answer enough. Would everything change, or nothing? What did he feel for me, and was it exactly the same as what I felt for him? How stressful. On the whole, I might have preferred a couple crisp C-notes.
Well, almost. Except for the amazingly wonderful part that made me feel bursty inside.
It was an urban legend that prostitutes don’t kiss on the mouth. I preferred to think of it as the greatest PR campaign ever run. Since everyone thought we never did it, we didn’t have to, all without insulting the client or lowering our price.
But kissing is far from the most heinous of sexual acts, and money will buy every single one of them. Every client I kissed thought they were the one exception… Now, that was the way to receive a great tip. Undercommit and overdeliver, the recipe for success in every industry.
