by Chase, Emma
She’s being polite again—because except for the epically large-screen television, black recliner and sofa, and dark gray crocheted blanket, courtesy of my mum, folded across the back, I haven’t done much.
“Moved in?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says with a smile, “it’s obviously a bachelor pad, but it’s warm—laid back. It feels like you.”
I wander closer to her. “Do you want something to drink?”
Now I’m being polite too.
Abby shakes her head, her eyes drifting down to her shoes.
And she suddenly looks fragile to me—unsure and out of her depth. Because despite the fierceness I’ve glimpsed from her—her brilliance and ambition—I’m hit with the certainty that Abby doesn’t have a lot of experience with men. That a one-night stand or fucking without commitments is unchartered territory. That knowledge makes me feel privileged, honored—and ferociously protective.
“Are sure you want to do this, Abby? It’s all right if you change your mind. I can take you back to your friends at the pub.”
She lifts her chin, looking into my eyes. “I don’t want to change my mind.” Abby inhales a deep, slow breath—the kind that you take right before you dive straight into deep water. “I’m sure that I want this. That I want you.”
She puts her hand on my chest, her fingers pressing into the thick roped fabric of my sweater.
“Come on, Tommy. You can’t back out on me now.”
And there’s something about my name on her lips that captures me—holds on and doesn’t let go.
Because when it comes to women I’m used to doing the chasing. I like the chase and I’m good at it. And the pinnacle of the best seductive pursuits is that singular moment when you know in your bones that you’ve won . . . and all that you’ve been craving is right there at your fingertips.
But this moment with Abby is different, better, infinitely sweeter.
Because it isn’t just that I’ve won her or wooed her—she’s turned it around. Against her nature and better judgement, outside her comfort zone—she’s chasing me. Enticing me, reeling me in to her. And for the first time in my life being wanted that way doesn’t make it feel too easy or uninteresting.
Because of her—because I know this isn’t her way—that she’s doing it just for me, only for me. It’s hard-won and worthy. Important.
It makes what’s happening here and now precious to me.
I slide my hand up her bare arm—her skin is warm and soft as satin. I cup the side of her face in my palm and wrap the other hand around her waist, drawing her forward.
“Say that again.”
“What?”
I stare at her mouth.
“Say my name again.”
A smile teases at her mouth as she reaches up, grazing the tip of her nose against mine—as soft as the brush of a butterfly’s wing. And her lips are right fucking there.
“Tommy . . .”
I was hard before, but the whispery plea in her tone turns me to granite. And I curl over her, covering her mouth with mine—thrusting my tongue in deep and demanding, desperate to devour every inch of her.
She gasps at first, stiffening for just a second.
But then . . . then she melts.
Yeah, that’s the way.
She presses her breasts against my chest, her stomach to mine, twining her arms around my neck like she can’t get close enough. And it all comes rushing back—the feel of her in my hands, the taste of her tongue. It’s wild and consuming and more perfect than anything my pitiful memory allowed me to recall.
I sink my hands into the soft silk of her hair, gripping a bit, and she rewards me with a throaty little moan. I angle her head, slowing down the kiss, so I can suck at her lips and slide slowly against her tongue—savoring the velvet feel of her mouth the way we both deserve.
And Abby isn’t idle. Her hands roam and clutch, before gripping the bottom of my sweater and pushing it up my rib cage. I stop kissing her long enough to tug it over my head and drop it on the floor. But I don’t go back for her mouth straightaway.
Because she’s staring at me—at my bare torso—eyes wide and dark with naked hungry want. With wonder.
And then she touches me.
Pressing her palm against my hot skin, following it with her gaze as she skims the swells of muscles across my chest, over my arms, then down my abdomen.
“There’s so much to you,” she breathes out. “I’ve imagined so many times what you would look like.”
Abby brings her other hand into play, nails scratching lightly across my stomach, caressing the indents where my jeans hang low on my hips. Making me groan—driving me mad.
“But this is more—better—than I envisioned.”
I yank her back into my arms, kissing her roughly so she’ll stop saying things that make me want to rip her clothes off and fuck here on the hard oak floor.
It would be fast and filthy—and she would let me do it.
But I don’t want to rush this. I want to relish every sensation and delight in every gorgeous moan I pull from her.
I drag the zipper down the back of her dress and Abby slips it off to a pool of dark green around her feet.
And I think this woman may actually be trying to kill me.
Because she’s not wearing a bra.
How the hell did I not notice this before?
Her breasts are high and pale and perfect—her nipples two tight rose points, begging to be worshiped and sucked. Abby stands before me in nothing but her sky-high heels and a scrap of sheer black lace that can be called knickers in only the barest sense of the word.
My cock is so hard it throbs in time to the beat of my heart, like it’s trying to pound its way through the zipper of my jeans.
She shifts her arms, but before she can cover herself—because that just won’t fucking do—I sink to my knees in front of her like the sinner I am. I cup her tits in my hands, squeezing gently, rubbing the full mounds and dragging my thumbs achingly slowly across her nipples.
Abby’s head rolls back as she hisses my name.
“Tommy.”
I bring my mouth to her breast, wrap my lips around one needy little peak and suckle. She tastes sweet here too—soft and smooth and fragrant. I move to her other breast, flicking with my tongue before drawing her nipple into my mouth with long, suctioning pulls.
“Oh yes.” Abby clasps my head, leaning forward, giving me more of her flesh.
And it’s all so good. My blood simmers with fire and flames lick at the surface of my skin.
Because she likes it, loves it, is desperate for it—my touch, my mouth, my cock.
And nothing in the world is more of a turn-on than that.
I nibble a wet trail down the center of her flat, taut stomach. I bite the waist of her lace knickers with my teeth and tug, pulling them down her legs—leaving her bare.
She watches me stare—her chest rising and falling in quick pants—as I take in the loveliness of her smooth, sweet pussy and tiny trimmed strip of auburn hair. I rest my hands on her hips and press a delicate kiss to her hip bone, her pelvis. The scent of her, the wetness already glistening on her lips, weakens my grip on sanity.
“I want to taste you, Abby. I want to lick you and love you here until you can’t think straight. I want to make you come just like this.”
I look up and meet her eyes.
“You on board with that?”
She can’t seem to catch her breath.
“I . . . if you . . . I mean—” She swallows hard. “Yes—most definitely.”
Thank Christ.
“Fantastic answer, sweets.”
Then I pull her against my mouth. I lap and lave at her with the flat of my tongue—slow and deep—getting off on how soaked she is for me, on how good she smells and fuck, how delicious she tastes. Like spiced sweet luscious apples.
“Oh God,” she moans.
I use my fingers to open her up so I can lick circles on her swollen bud of h
er clit and thrust my tongue inside where she’s hot and tight.
Abby’s body calls to me like a siren’s song. And I have a complete understanding of the sailors, back in the olden days, who let themselves crash against the rocks—just to try and get closer to the sound.
Because I would let myself get crushed for this. Risk being obliterated. As long as it meant I could keep tasting and licking and fucking her with my tongue. As long as I could keep hearing the whimpering moans that sing so sweetly from Abby’s throat—almost as sweet as her pussy—but not quite.
“Oh God, oh God,” she gasps above me.
I grip her arse, and her fingers tighten and tug at my hair as her hips rotate, jerking against my mouth. I lash and lick at her relentlessly . . . until she’s there. Until I feel her coming—taste the wet, hot, writhing pleasure of it. Her muscles go stiff and clenching, her knees buckle and her choked, gasping moan echoes off the walls.
With a final kiss to her pelvis, I stand and scoop Abby up. Her limbs are relaxed and weighted as I move us to the sofa, slipping off her shoes so she’ll be more comfortable. With my heart jackhammering in my chest, I sit down and arrange her so she’s straddling me—her knees bracketing my thighs. And then we’re kissing again—chests rubbing, hands roaming.
“I’ve got condoms in my bedside drawer,” I say against her mouth.
If there was a patron saint of sex and passion and orgasms to come, she’d look just like Abby does now—with her breasts high and her red hair wild and her skin flushed the perfect shade of warm pink.
“I have condoms out here—in the pocket of my dress.”
I chuckle. “Dresses with pockets are awesome.”
Abby slips off my lap and moves over to her dress. I kick off my shoes and socks and unbutton my jeans, pushing them off in record time. When she comes back to the sofa, I’ve got my cock in my hand, stroking it slow and good.
And she watches, with dark eyes and parted lips—enjoying the view. She holds out the condom to me, but I shake my head.
“Put it on me.”
Because if we’re really doing this—and I plan on doing this a lot—shyness has no place. She’s going to need to be nice and familiar with every inch of me.
“Bossy,” she teases.
“I like telling you what to do. There’s a twisted thrill in it.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.” I crook my finger at her. “And you’re gonna like it too—I’ll make sure of it.”
She lowers herself down beside the sofa—looking oh-so-pretty on her knees. She replaces my hand with hers, gliding up and down my shaft, jerking me off, and I sink back into the pleasure.
And then she’s rolling the condom down my thick length. And I’m guiding her over me, legs spread, lining us up, pressing the head of my cock against her heat. My hand clenches harshly at her hip as she sinks down slowly—so fucking slow—taking me in until our pelvises are flush and Abby’s arse is against my thighs and my cock is cradled inside her.
She’s wet and tight and everything.
She molds around me—every bit as blissful as I knew she would be.
“Fuck, that’s good. It’s so good.”
We kiss and grind, and I cup her tits and suck on her neck.
Abby puts her hands over mine at her hips.
“Show me,” she pants. “Show me how you like it.”
I’m all for taking control, but in this particular juncture, with Abby’s perfect pussy squeezing around me—I’m in the mood for something else.
“Get yourself off on me. Ride me until you come. I want to see it, Abby.” I kiss her hard. “I want to feel it.”
Every woman has that pace, that one way of fucking and being fucked that they absolutely love. That’s guaranteed to get them off every time. Some are too timid to ask for it and some men are too damn dumb to notice when they do—but that’s what I want now.
I want Abby to show me—and I want to watch her fall apart as she does.
She moans low and long at my words, her eyes sliding closed and her hips shifting—her muscles instinctively clamping. I skim my hands from her arse to her waist and up to her breasts—cupping and teasing them—and leaning forward to suck and lick on the sweet berry of her nipple.
And then she starts to move, to find that rhythm that will make her gasp and whimper and scream.
Abby likes it deep, and slow. She doesn’t rush or bounce up and down frantically.
She glides.
My cock is rigid and hot and buried inside her the whole time, as she grinds back and forth and then in circles—rubbing her clit against my pelvis with a steady, intensifying pressure.
I lie back against the sofa cushion, tilting my head up, watching her.
And for a second my breath catches in my lungs.
Because she’s beautiful like this. Open and bare and chasing her pleasure—and brave enough to let me watch. Her eyes are closed, her lashes fanning, her pretty brow scrunched in slight concentration and her plump lower lip captured between her teeth.
Her hips slide faster, and she widens her legs, pressing me inside deeper. I feel her pussy tightening around me, getting wetter . . . getting close.
I grip the back of her neck, pulling her down to me so I can whisper against her lips. “It’s so good, love. It’s so fucking good like this. Give it to me—let me feel you come.”
Abby opens her eyes and presses her forehead against mine and her pussy presses down on me and her hips jerk and her mouth opens in a broken, grasping groan.
And her muscles squeeze around my cock so good, she almost makes me come with her.
But I tamp it down, breathing harsh, and pull it back from the edge.
After she comes down from her orgasm, I grip Abby’s arse and stand up from the sofa. We kiss roughly on the way to the bedroom. She licks at my neck, my jaw, chanting God’s name and mine in my ear. I pause halfway down the hall, press her back against the wall and thrust inside her—’cause it feels too good not to.
And then we’re in the bedroom. I lay Abby on her back and pull out, resting on my knees so I can look her over, touch her. So I can spread her legs wide in the middle of my brilliant bed.
I start at her mouth, rubbing her lip with my thumb, down her chin, drawing a slow line to her breasts, then down the center of her stomach and between her legs.
“Tell me to fuck you.”
She’s extra warm and slippery now. I pump two fingers inside her and use her own wetness to rub her clit slick. Rubbing soft and teasing—not to get her off, but to keep her hot.
“Say it sweets.”
Her voice is small and for the first time since we walked in my door—unsure.
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
I wedge my hips between her thighs, bracing over her on one hand and holding my cock with the other—sliding the head up and down her slit.
“But I want to hear you say it, Abby. It’ll feel so good to hear.” I lean down and kiss her gently. “You want to make me feel good, don’t you?”
I already know she does, but her chin jerks up and down in confirmation.
“Then give me the words, beautiful girl.”
Up and down I slide my dick—pressing close but not pushing in. Abby braces her feet against the bed, knees bent, raising her hips up, trying to take me inside.
“Tell me what you want, Abby. What we both want.” I suck at her lips. “ Let me hear you say it.”
She looks right in my eyes and in her perfect, refined voice—she begs.
“I . . . I want you inside me, Tommy.”
“You want me to fuck you?”
“Oh God—yes. Please . . .” Her hips rise again—searching—and my dick is right there at her tight opening. “Please fuck me, Tommy. Fuck me now.”
And it’s so good and I’m so pleased with her—I don’t make her wait a second longer.
I drive into her. Full and flush. When I can’t get any deeper, I rotate my hips, rubbing back and fo
rth just how she likes it.
Then I pull back and thrust back in. Hard and again, and over and over. I look down, watching how she takes me in—and the view is beautiful.
“Take it,” I rasp, mindless now. “Take it all.”
Abby’s tits bounce with every thrust. Her chin is raised and her brow is damp as she chants and moans. “Yes, oh yes . . . yes . . .”
My hips speed up—thrusting faster. Thick heat gathers low in my gut—building and rising and so, so good.
I press Abby’s hands above her head—our fingers twining.
And then she gasps, chin rising, her pussy squeezing around me in clenching spasms.
“Tommy.”
And she takes me with her.
I drive into her one last time, buried deep as I come and come inside her in thick, exquisite pulses that rip the pleasure through me.
Moments later, I’m still twitching with aftershocks. But I lift my head from Abby’s neck, and brush her hair back from her face.
I dip my head and kiss her lips softly, and I eat up the sweet smile she gives me in return.
* * *
After about ten minutes of lying in bed, when our skin has cooled and our pulses don’t beat like we’re having matching heart attacks, Abby stretches beside me. Her spine curves beautifully, her succulent breasts lifting, her long arms reaching back and her hands pressing against the headboard.
Which gets me thinking about tying them there. That’d be all kinds of fun.
“That was amazing,” she says on a dreamy, languid sigh. “I feel outstanding.”
It’s a tone I’m familiar with . . . but it’s always nice to hear.
“I have that effect on women.” I smirk.
She glances at the bedside clock and frowns. “I have to get home. I have an early shift tomorrow. Well . . . today.”
I roll to my side, bracing my head on my hand, tracing her collarbone with the tip of my finger. “You could stay the night. A first-thing-in-the-morning fuck is the best way to start the day.”
She’s tempted, hesitating, but then shakes it off—sitting up and taking the sheet with her—back to sexy Miss Proper.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
I shrug. “Suit yourself.”
I swing my legs off the bed and head out to the parlor to collect our clothes. But when I walk back in, Abby’s gaze follows my every move, like her eyeballs are long-distance superglued to my flesh.