by Leigh Tudor
“So, are you finally going to fuck me, Trevor Forrest?” she asked boldly as if asking what the temp was outside.
Jesus, it was like her mouth had no choice but to erupt with a steady stream of consciousness. No filter whatsoever.
“Is that what you want?” he asked, knowing the answer.
“Depends,” she said with a single shoulder shrug. “Are you any good?”
This was her MO—making outrageous comments for shock value and to give her a false sense of control. She wasn’t fooling him. She was nervous. He liked that. But was this all part of her saucy schtick? Was she going to bolster his sexual confidence only to tear it back down?
“Sex isn’t off the table. But need I remind you that just this morning you brought up our imminent breakup?”
She looked away. “That was the deal.”
“The deal’s off,” he said, his last thread of control starting to unravel.
“It is, is it?” she asked without argument, which gave him pause.
He closed the gap between them, pushing her against the table until one of her paint-splattered hands reached behind her for balance.
How would she react to being cornered or to being controlled? God, how he wanted to know. “If you want this, me, you’re going to have to deal with the fact we’re a couple. A real couple. No more fake shit and no more lying.”
“In that case, this better be good,” she said, her fingers making their way to the back of his neck. “Like, rip my panties off good.”
He smirked, realizing she once again managed to shock him with her presumed submission. He peered down at her with one eye shut. “Yeah, that whole ripping off panties? That’s not as easy as movies and books make it out to be.”
“Well, you better get to work then.”
That mouth.
There was nothing he wanted more than to take her breath away. Make her squirm and whimper until she was speechless and gasping.
He felt her tremble against him, a full-body shiver, as he contemplated doing every filthy thing he ever fantasized about to her body.
Reaching behind her, he swept his hand along the table, the tubes of paint falling to the floor along with several plastic cups filled with brushes. And she squealed in surprise as he picked her up and sat her on the table.
“What . . . what are you doing?” she asked, actually sounding vulnerable and unsure of herself. And damn him, he loved it. Loved that he was able to unbalance her. Upend her.
His insides smoldered as he watched her reticent eyes focus on his hands pulling at the hem of her shirt and removing it with a single yank.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said as his fingers latched onto the waist of her leggings, he pulled them down and then leaned her body side to side as he shifted them from beneath her tight ass, her eyes still uncertain. “One by one, I’m going to suck your nipples so hard that you cry out with ecstatic pain. Then I’m going to work my way down to your pussy, where I get to lick and nip at that small bundle of nerves that will make you crazy with wanting my dick. And then, I’m going to turn you around and bend you over the table, play with your folds and lick your seam until you writhe with wanting me inside you.” He smoldered as if his internal temperature was about to combust. “The only question remaining is are you ready?”
The saucy vamp had disappeared, replaced by a woman who was, for once, unsure of herself. It was probably the first time someone else called her hand and snagged control from her tight grip. Where someone else played the dominant. God, how he loved seeing her chew on her lip while squirming with want.
“Doesn’t sound very spontaneous when you give me step-by-step instructions,” she said with feigned cheekiness.
There it was—her trademark bravado. Verbal tactics of spewing distracting words until your foe forgot their original intent while she gained some sense of jurisdiction over something she knew little about.
“Oh,” he said, picking up a pair of scissors sitting to his left on the table. “You want spontaneous?”
Amber eyes were glued on the cutting instrument. “Um, maybe we should discuss . . .”
Before she could protest, he pulled at one side of her white cotton panties. She sucked in as he made one swift cut through the filmy material. His arm banded around her chest, lifting her ass inches from the table as he yanked the destroyed panties from under her.
“I can do spontaneous, Buttercup. The question is, can you handle it?”
Mercy felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience. Her entire frame shivered despite his every touch singeing her skin.
She felt so many conflicting emotions at one time.
Omigosh, she was going to have sex.
And he knew what he was doing.
But she didn’t have a clue, outside of what she read about and watched in movies.
Uncertainty and doubt dampened her anticipation.
She was nothing short of a failure at most things. Well, except for art. But if her past was any indication of tonight’s success, she was in deep trouble. Like a murky-deep abyss of trouble.
Faking it until she made it seemed a viable approach to having sex with Trevor Forrest.
Maybe she just needed to up her game.
Allowing him to take the lead was no longer an option. And as it stood, he not only grabbed a hold of the reins but he was also calling all the kill shots.
And he was killing her.
Control was the secret. Allowing him to take the reins was foolhardy and totally misguided. For the sake of self-preservation, she had to maintain a semblance of experience. All while having sex for the first time with a frustrated alpha male whose dick appeared to be tunneling its way out of his pants.
“The . . . the question is, whether you can handle me.”
Wow, she said that with the confidence of a slug tooling around hot pavement with a cracked shell.
Concentrate, Mercy.
He smiled devilishly as if he were on to her.
Was he laughing at her?
Not. Cool.
Narrowing her eyes, she rallied. Regain control. Show him who’s boss in this fake relationship.
She attempted to yank his shirt off with the same efficiency he did with hers. But it got caught, the top button needing to be undone so it could slide easily off his neck.
The a-hole smirked at her.
Oh heck to the no.
Remembering his sexual to-do list, she took matters into her own hands and plagiarized his game plan. She gave him what she hoped was an equally smoldering look and then leaned over to lick one nipple. He inhaled sharply, the nipple budding up and standing at attention.
Heat pooled down below at the thought of being responsible for his bodily reaction to one single lick.
Oh, yes. Taking an offense approach was the secret sauce.
Eff defense.
Encouraged, she licked the now distended nipple again, and when his hands raked through her hair, she sucked on it and felt his breath catch. She then sucked harder until he pulled her head back, making a popping sound with her greedy lips.
They stared at one another, his warm hands cradling her face as if contemplating his next move, both of them panting and so, so hungry.
He attempted to lay her back on the table, and she resisted, their eyes in a staring contest of wills. She glared back at him as if daring him to make the next move as she refused to comply.
And then he did.
Both hands reached under her and picked her up, her arms wrapping around his shoulders in surprise. Her back landed on the table, and she stared back at him in shock and something else.
Something she couldn’t quite name.
His large hands took both breasts and squeezed them together, not moving his eyes away from hers. And then, he was laving the one side, sucking, nipping, and tugging. And then he reverted to the other, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure as he tortured her nipple with his tongue and teeth.
Her head lo
lled back and forth, every lick, nip, and pull making a beeline to her core.
He suckled the engorged tip deep into his mouth, released it, and then gave it a soft tongue bath.
Both breasts felt instantly cold and neglected as his hands left her body and targeted something next to her on the table.
She turned her head just as he opened a lone tube of paint with one hand.
“What are you doing?” she asked, impressed she was able to complete a sentence.
“Marking my way,” he said with an intensity that made her body quake.
He rubbed his hands together, his eyes boring into hers, and then they gloriously made their way back to her tender breasts, spreading the pigment and marking his path with a sinuous cerulean blue.
His hands released her breasts and were now pinning her arms to her sides despite the slippery paint. A move that should have resulted in one of her knees slamming into his balls. But instead, she found herself wrapping them around his waist as his lips continued their journey down her ribs and to just below her hips, his paint-splattered hand following his mouth’s sinuous path and, as promised, marking his way.
Without warning, her wrists were caught in his iron grip. An unnecessary move as she was out of her mind. He had robbed her of it with only a few well-placed, animalistic streaks of blue paint and a vise-like grip.
His mouth neared her most private area of her body, making her writhe and squirm with want and need.
But then, out of nowhere, she thought of what the lay of the land below the panty line looked like, and her body froze.
He moved lower, and her legs tightened around him, but this time, with uncertainty and not anticipation.
Should she have shaved? Isn’t that what all the sexually active women were doing these days? Outside of a trim and a few touch-ups, she sported a full bush. Granted, it wasn’t long enough for him to choke on, but it could be quite the unwanted surprise once his mouth came across a patch of hair with the texture of a short beard.
Omigod, what if she gave him beard-rash?
“Hold on, wait a minute,” she said, and to his credit, he instantly released her wrists, allowing her to lean back on her elbows.
“I’m going to need a few minutes. Can you help me up?”
He looked at her with confusion and then between her legs with what seemed like excruciating disappointment. “To do what?”
She continued to squirm, but now more from acute embarrassment than desire. “I’m . . . I haven’t prepared for this, you know, south of the border.”
“South of the border?” he asked, glancing between her legs.
“Yeah, you know, the demilitarized zone in the private area.”
“What exactly needs prep?”
She squeezed her eyes shut as he continued to gaze upon what she now imagined as a veritable jungle of pubic hair. “I have some overgrowth. I didn’t know that we might . . . I didn’t shave properly.”
“You want to get up so you can shave?”
She pressed her lips together and nodded, unclenching her legs from his waist. But before they could hit the ground, he held tight to one calf, which he placed over his shoulder.
“Wait, I need to get up.” She felt exposed and . . . pubic-ly deficient.
“No.” His grip on her leg was likely to cause bruising as he continued to gaze on her barbaric private parts.
Her entire body stiffened. “No?”
She was taken aback by his unrelenting, overbearing demeanor.
The nerve.
“You don’t get to call the shots here,” he said, his eyes back to gazing at her. With one arm circling her thigh, he pulled back her folds, looking at her as if he were about to feast. “I like you just the way you are, wild and untamed. Now, for once in your life, you’re going to shut up and do what you're told.”
“Oh, I am, am I?”
One side of his lip turned up with the confidence of a man who knew what he was doing. “Yes, you are.”
“Maybe we should test that theory,” she said, dying of humiliation yet desperate to maintain some level of dignity.
When he kissed the inside of her thigh, she melted, and her brain became fuzzy.
“Show me how wide you can spread for me, Buttercup.”
Oh no, he did not. He did not pull out the big guns.
Her nickname.
Hesitating, she chewed her lip, and to her dismay and repugnance, she did exactly what she was told, letting her knees fall open and reveling in the growl that rumbled from his mouth.
“So fucking pretty,” he said, and she almost hyperventilated as he held her thigh with one thick bicep as he pulled her folds further open and gave her the first swipe of his tongue. She bucked her hips and nearly screamed as he groaned with intense satisfaction as his tongue made another pass.
She pulled herself from her elbows and leaned back on one arm as her hand raked through his wavy, ridiculously soft hair and then cradled the back of his head as his mouth became more rough and insistent.
One hand found her breast, tweaking her nipple and causing her to have to bite her lip to keep from moaning uncontrollably.
“Promise me,” he said, pausing to bite the inside of her thigh. “Promise me we’re not breaking up. Tell me you’re mine.”
She shook her head. “That’s not what we agreed.” Oh, he was such a player. No, a cheater. Employing tactics that exemplified the very opposite of fair play.
He rose, wrapping an arm around her waist and flipping her onto her stomach, pulling her back far enough that her backside was perfectly angled for penetration, evidenced by his jean-covered hardness shoved against her.
How did he anticipate that? Did he measure the height of the table without her knowing?
She barely had time to catch her breath as she heard his zipper descend and then the tear of what must have been a condom wrapper. Then she felt those painted hands spreading her cheeks, and he was there, slipping his shaft between her folds and using her wetness to pave the way for what felt like an enormous dick.
“Say it,” he said. Teasing her, he slipped through her seam, mocking her with her own wetness and then sliding forward until it touched another part of her that had never been breached. He continued his physical extortion of her body as he teased her opening with the head of his cock until she was nearly delirious and ready to promise anything short of murder. Though even that had potential.
“Please,” she begged, desperately afraid she was going to break down and weep until she got what she needed. What she craved.
He leaned farther, his breath tickling her ear. “Say you’re mine.”
She groaned in frustration. “I’m yours.”
One hand latched on to the side of her neck, and in one brutal motion, he thrust home.
She felt the tear and burn, and cried out, white-knuckling the opposite end of the table. Jagged pain engulfed her. She could feel his hips behind her and prayed that there wasn’t more of him to take as she was stretched to capacity.
When he froze, she wished she could see his face and read his expression. She rested her forehead on the table, trying to take deep breaths to move past the torment. She felt so full. There simply wasn’t enough room.
“Are you okay?” he asked with a hoarse voice as if he too were barely hanging on.
“I don’t think so.” She gasped through the pain. “Why didn’t you tell me you were the size of a small country?”
“Breathe, Buttercup,” he said, rubbing her back. Slowly, the muscles began to unclench and relax. “You’ve got this.”
He wasn’t moving. Why wasn’t he moving? She was glad, but still . . .
“Are you stuck?” she asked, “Can . . . can that happen?”
“No, that can’t happen. I’m trying to give you time to get used to me.”
“I think we’re well past the familiarity stage.” She heaved, working to catch her next breath.
Instant regret for having such a quick mouth ensued as he pulled
back an inch and slowly moved forward. Back to grasping the table edge, she attempted to breathe through the movement.
“Are we done? Are you done?” She gasped at the stinging pain.
He was now kissing the back of her neck and whispering words of encouragement. Telling her how perfect she was and what he wanted to do to her.
But come on. This was nothing like the love scenes she watched on Netflix or read about in books. This was worse than a punch to the boob or being waterboarded. Maybe she simply possessed a low pain tolerance level? She had only lasted less than a minute before singing like a bird when those incessant drops of water hit her forehead.
And this was bordering on eternity.
He continued his slow pace, and she continued her breathing exercises.
And then the pain began to subside and turn into something else entirely. She still felt like she was split in half but also like she’d die if he didn’t move.
She pushed back to encourage him and breathed a sigh of relief when her movement was met with a slick warmth as opposed to pain.
“Ah, fuck.” Trevor gasped, stock-still behind her. “I need to move.”
“Why aren’t you moving?”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“If you don’t move, I’m going to hurt you.”
With what felt like a few shallow, testing thrusts, she began to writhe and moan. And instead of wanting to plunge a shiv into his neck, she now felt like purring like a feline, working its body against him like he was her personal scratching post.
To her dismay, he pulled out, picking her up in his arms and moving to the small sofa with her in his lap.
Pushing back the hair from her face, he explained, “I’m going to need to see your face for this.”
Confused, she asked, “For what?”
“For when I see you come for the first time with me inside you.”
His hands were back in her hair, moving her head just where he wanted her as his mouth took hers. Whereas before he was rough and demanding, now he was kissing her softly, taking moments to look her in the eyes, making her feel suddenly more self-conscious than when she was bent over the table with her backside in the air and avoiding eye contact.