“You’re in control!”
“And who does your cunt belong to?”
“You,” I say reverently, because I want it to be true. “My cunt belongs to you.”
“Goddamn right it does. I’m gonna make sure you don’t forget it.”
He barely finishes his sentence before he starts a furious rhythm, drilling into me like a jackhammer with one hand braced on my lower back and the other still anchored and pulling back on my hair to keep my body bowed taut.
Over and over, he slams into me, and I lose myself in the sensations. His hips smacking against my ass. His cock invading me, its veiny ridges raking gloriously over the nerve-rich flesh of my vagina. The lovely sting at my scalp sending frissons of electricity to every erogenous zone in my body. All of it threatens to consume me, to pull me under the riptide of unbelievable pleasure and drown me.
But just as I’m about to succumb to my second orgasm, Chance pulls out. I whimper in protest, but don’t dare move my hips or try to entice him back. This is his game; he’s in control. I admitted as much a few minutes ago, so now I have to trust that he won’t make either of us suffer for long.
He swipes a thumb through my wetness and runs it up to my puckered hole, causing me to jerk and draw in a sharp breath. Rubbing in slow circles, he teases me with the carnal promise of more. “I’m fucking your ass tonight, Jane. I’ve been thinking about doing this ever since I since I shoved a finger in here during our little bathroom encounter. I could tell by your reaction you either don’t have a lot of experience with anal, or none at all. Which is it?”
“N-none,” I stammer.
Chance gives a pleased grunt and pushes, slow and steady, until his thumb passes the ring of muscle trying to keep it out. I moan softly as he moves it in and out, stretching the sides and opening me up. The sensitive nerve endings come alive and send ripples of pleasure up my spine.
He switches his thumb out for two fingers. I know enough by now to concentrate on relaxing my muscles, and that when I feel the need to tighten them, I actually need to push out in order to let him in. But that doesn’t mean I’m all that good at it.
I suck in a sharp breath as he tries to add a third finger, and I instinctively bear down. He stops for a second and dips a digit from his other hand into my still soaking pussy, rubbing the tip along the ridges of my G-spot and reminding my body that it wants whatever he does, no matter what he does.
“Atta girl, Jane,” he says. “You know how big my fucking cock is. I’m trying to do you a favor and prepare you first, because make no mistake, my cock is going in your tight little asshole either way.”
In the back of my mind, I know Chance won’t do anything that would make something hurt in a bad way. Any pain he gives me is the good kind. But pretending he doesn’t care, as if the only pleasure that truly matters is his own, makes my pulse race as flames of desire lick over my skin.
“We’ll try one more time and then ready or not, here I come. No pun intended.” He chuckles without mirth, like a mad scientist about to throw the switch on his creation. “Spread your ass for me.”
I reach back, grab my cheeks, and pull them apart. All of my weight is on my chest and face, but I’m angled so that I can see him. Watching him watch me, seeing his different expressions as he fucks me… Goddamn, it’s so hot.
He removes the finger from my pussy, and I whimper before I can stop myself. Flicking his gaze to mine, he gives me an evil grin, then leans forward and spits on my asshole. I gasp as I feel it hit my sensitive ring and start to slide down my crack. But my shock is replaced with ecstasy when he scoops up the saliva with his thumb and works it around my rim, allowing that third finger to finally slide into my hole. I moan and press my hips back, begging him for more, which he gives me.
I don’t know if it’s a minute or five or twenty that he works me open, fucking me with his fingers as he stretches me wider and wider until he’s satisfied his dick will have few issues getting past my body’s natural instinct to keep that area “exit only.” Sweat slicks my skin, and my breathing is erratic at best, but I’m anxious for him to take my last claim to virginity.
“Please, Chance, fuck me,” I beg. “Fuck my ass.”
Finally, he presses the bulbous head of his cock against my back hole. Though he’d opened me up a lot with his fingers, as soon as he retreated, things immediately started tightening up. I feel the pressure of being stretched all over again, but it’s not nearly as bad as in the beginning. I remind myself to take deep breaths and push back as he steadily pushes forward, but it’s starting to sting. Jesus Christ, he’s big.
Just as I’m thinking I can’t do this, he withdraws.
I hear something else tear open, and I lift my head up to look over my shoulder. It’s a small, flat package of—shit, that’s cold—lube, I realize as he rubs it in. I look at him questioningly and he answers with a crooked grin—not the kind his evil alter ego gives me when we’re playing, but the genuine smirk he gives me all the time—and I get what he’s done. He let me ride the edge of the unknown with the twinges of apprehension until the last possible second, and now he’s making sure I’m okay—that he doesn’t do anything that will cause me true discomfort—and my heart beats a little faster for reasons I don’t want to acknowledge.
Donning his stern expression again, he commands me to resume my position, which I do. This time, there’s still the pressure, but the lube helps him slide in much easier.
“Ohhhhh,” I say on an exhale. “That’s…you’re…oh my God.”
I can’t string a full sentence together to save my life as he fully seats himself inside me, and the moan he lets out is sexy as hell. Withdrawing, he hisses in a breath then blows it out as he presses back in. A couple more slow strokes, allowing me to adjust to his size and the new invasion, and then he starts to pick up speed.
The pleasure is different but powerful, and I feel the stirrings of a climax forming in the pit of my stomach. In the distance, as though I’m having an out of body experience, I hear myself making all kinds of sounds—moans, whimpers, mewls, and occasional repetitions of the words “yes” and “more”—but what I focus on are the noises Chance makes. His grunts punctuate every thrust, and his heavy panting tells me he’s just as affected as I am.
“Fuck, yes,” he grinds out through clenched teeth. “Squeeze my cock just like that, baby.”
“Feels so good.”
“Goddamn right it does.” He slips his hand between me and the table. “And it’s about to get a lot fucking better.”
Chapter Fourteen
Chance
This woman is blowing my fucking mind. I need her to come like yesterday because I’m about to blow a whole lot more, and there’s no way I’m not making sure she gets hers first.
I shove my hand under her body and plunge three fingers deep into her pussy. Her back bows, and she cries a string of filthy obscenities that turn me on even more, if that’s possible. I love it when my good girl goes bad.
Between how tight she is from coming earlier, and my cock stretching her ass, Jane is filled to capacity, but I don’t have any problems pushing my way in because her cunt is soaking wet. She’s literally dripping off my knuckles, onto the table, and down her thigh. Everything’s a sloppy mess, and I fucking love it.
I press the heel of my hand against her clit as I pump into her with my fingers and cock. She starts chanting, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” and I can tell her orgasm is closing in fast by the way she furrows her brow and she bites down so hard on her lower lip she might draw blood.
“Now, baby,” I demand. “Come on me right fucking now.”
Screaming, she does, and her pussy squeezes so hard that it forces my fingers from her body so I switch to palming her hips to pull her into me as I continue to thrust, pounding into her, relentlessly chasing my own end.
Lightning shoots through me and starts a fire in my heavy balls. Just as I’m about to come, I pull out. I have a sudden, inexplicable need
to see myself fill this woman with my seed, marking her in the most intimate way I can. She starts to push up to see what I’m doing, but I press a hand to the base of her spine to keep her from moving my target.
“Don’t move.” I fist my cock and jerk myself the last few times before I find my release. I watch with satisfaction as my cum shoots out from the tip of my dick. Most of it lands on her still gaping asshole—which is a thing of fucking beauty in and of itself—but some of it drips down her crack on its way to her pussy.
Shuddering as the last aftershock rolls through me, leaving me with nothing left to spend, I abandon my softening cock and use my fingers to push every drop of cum I spilled on her into her still slightly open hole.
“What are you doing?” she asks meekly.
My gaze flicks up to hers. Her cheeks are flushed, and her face is tucked behind her shoulder. My good girl is back and feeling shy, which is enough to make my dick twitch despite how spent it is. “I want my cum filling you, branding you from the inside.” When I have the outside of her completely cleaned up, I tap the pad of my thumb on her puckering rim. “Close it up tight, baby.” And she does.
I help her off the table, holding her steady until I’m sure her legs will hold her. I give her a hug, a kiss on the temple, and a light pat on the butt. “Go grab a shower. I’ll clean up out here and get dinner set up.”
“Okay,” she says, with a sweet, sated smile that makes me feel like a man who’s done his woman proud.
Then she grabs her robe, holds it to her chest in pointless modestly, and I watch her pad down the hallway to her bathroom. She gives me one last look over her shoulder with those fathomless brown eyes, then disappears and closes the door behind her.
I let out the breath I’d been holding, feeling like I just got kicked in the nuts. The kick actually feels a lot higher than that, but I tell myself that it’s only a side effect of having the best sex of my life. Because lying to yourself is fucking fun as hell.
Fifteen minutes later, I hear Jane reenter the apartment after taking my jeans and shirt down to the laundry as I’m setting out the different takeout containers in the living room. I already cleaned her dining table while she took her shower. It was the least I could do, considering the mess I made on it with her. I have to stop reliving it, or I’ll be sporting wood while we eat and she’ll think I have an erotic reaction to General Tso’s chicken. I like the stuff, but not that fucking much.
No, what I do like that fucking much is Jane. Every time we have sex, it replaces the last front-runner for Hottest Sex I’ve Ever Had. I don’t even know how that’s possible, but I try not to analyze it too much because I don’t want to start convincing myself that it means things that it doesn’t. We’re compatible in the bedroom—which is a figure of speech, considering we’ve never actually had sex in a bedroom. End of story.
So then why’d you bring over dinner and plan to hang out afterward, asshole? It’s the question that’s been plaguing me ever since I ordered for two. But just because I don’t plan on pulling a hit-it-and-quit-it tonight, doesn’t mean I’m looking for anything more than what we have. It also doesn’t mean that I can’t share a meal and hang out with someone other than the guys on occasion. If that someone happens to be the woman I’m fucking, it’s all the more convenient for me.
Jane pads barefoot into the living room in that fuzzy pink robe, the waves of her hair slightly damp from the shower, and a shy smile curving her bee-stung lips. Something kicks up in my gut, and a distant voice in the back of my mind reminds me that in another life, another time, I would’ve held on to a girl like Jane and never let her go. But I’ve been down that road before. It only leads to disappointment and heartache, and I’m not interested in feeling either of those things where a woman is concerned—never again.
“Hope you don’t mind I brought everything in here.” I gesture to the containers on the coffee table.
“Not at all,” she says, sitting on the couch and tucking her feet under her butt. “I eat in here all the time. It feels awkward sitting at a formal table all by myself.”
“I’m the same way. I’ll eat in my living room or at the island in my kitchen, unless I have the guys over. Roman’s fine, but Austin’s notorious for spilling shit. No way am I letting him near my white carpet with any kind of food.”
We divvy up the entrees, and I join her on the couch and dig in. With the long hours at work and the mind-blowing sex, I’m hungry as hell.
“Roman and Austin,” she says. “Those were the guys with you at the restaurant, right?”
“Yeah, they’re like my brothers. We met each other freshman year in high school, in after-school detention. We were involved in different things, so our social paths probably wouldn’t have crossed otherwise, but our personalities clicked, and we’ve been best friends ever since.”
“I can only imagine the trouble the three of you caused as teenagers,” she says, glancing over at me with a small grin.
“Who, us?” I ask incredulously, pointing at myself with my chopsticks. “We were angels. They were never able to prove otherwise.”
“Mmhmm, I’ll just bet. And then the angels grew up to be strippers. How did that happen?”
I smile, remembering the drunken night the guys and I came up with the harebrained scheme that had evolved into a lucrative side business. “It started as kind of a joke in college when we told some girls we’d come to their party and strip for beer and singles. They took us up on it. Word spread, and it wasn’t long before we made it a legitimate business.”
“Wow, that’s actually kind of genius.”
I chuckle and run a hand through my mostly dry hair, pushing it away from my face. “I don’t know whether to thank you for the compliment or be insulted at how surprised you sound.”
“No, I’m not surprised you thought of it,” she says quickly in her defense. “I’m more surprised there aren’t entire stripper fraternities out there. Seems like it’d be every college guy’s dream job.”
“I don’t know about dream job, but it’s not exactly torture getting attention from beautiful women like yourself.”
A hint of color spreads over the apples of her cheeks, and she clears her throat. I wonder if she’s uncomfortable because I called her beautiful or mentioned dancing for other women. I don’t like the idea of it being the latter and resolve to be more careful in the future. Just because she’s cool with what I do when I’m not with her doesn’t mean I have to be an asshole and rub it in her face.
“Thanks for taking my stuff down to the dryer.”
“It’s no problem. I’m sorry I don’t have anything here to offer you in the meantime,” she says between bites, while staring intently at her beef and broccoli. “I feel bad that you’re sitting around practically naked.”
It was lucky I happened to wear boxer briefs today, or I’d be a lot more naked. Not that I’d give a fuck, but Jane would probably blush to death, or hurt herself trying not to look at my junk. I’ve noticed she’s only been giving me cursory glances, like she’s afraid if she allows anything more, her eyes will wander below my neck. “Doesn’t bother me any. I’m practically a nudist at home, and it’s not like you haven’t seen it all, anyway.”
“That’s true.”
“Jane, you don’t have to avert your eyes,” I say, smiling big. I can’t help it; the woman amuses me to no end. “I’m a stripper, remember? Being stared at for my pretty packaging is as normal as a handshake to me.”
At that, she peeks up at me through her dark eyelashes and chews on her lower lip for a few seconds while she thinks, then she turns her attention back to the dinner she’s currently prodding with chopsticks. “Just because you’re used to being objectified doesn’t make it right for me to do it, no matter how pretty I think your packaging is.”
I chuckle. “That’s either the worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard, or the best.”
Finally, she raises her head and meets my gaze head on. She’s trying not to smile, but it’s n
ot quite working, and I see a hint of a dimple in her left cheek. I’m surprised I haven’t noticed it until now. Then again, when I think about it, I’m not sure she’s smiled around me before. She’s usually pissed off or turned on, neither of which elicits a dimpled kind of smile. A shame, really, because I’m betting it’s pretty fucking great.
“It’s not a pick-up line, you Neanderthal. It’s my thesis.”
I shove my mouth full of chicken and vegetables and consider whether to get into the personal details stuff. On one hand, it’s better if we keep everything superficial. No chance of this turning into something neither of us wants if we make everything about the sex.
But on the other hand, the woman intrigues me. I probably have a hundred questions I want to ask her, stretching from the lame “what’s your favorite color?” to more interesting topics like “who was your first kiss?”
Jane clears her throat and turns her attention back to her food. The silence is too long, and now I look like an ass. For fuck’s sake, I’m being ridiculous. Getting to know her doesn’t mean she’ll expect a ring on her finger.
“What’s your thesis about?” Her eyes meet mine again. This time, there’s a combination of eagerness and hesitancy swirling in those brilliant pools of chocolate, and I realize I don’t like the hesitant part one bit. She shouldn’t feel like she can’t talk to me. “You can’t tease me by saying your horrible pick-up line is the subject of your thesis and not explain. Come on,” I encourage her, “I’m genuinely curious.”
“Okay,” she says, stabbing her chopsticks into her container and then setting it on the coffee table. “It’s titled ‘American Objectification of Women’ and explores the stigma that a woman’s worth is based on her sexuality or her status as a sex symbol. Also, how we’re automatically portrayed in sexual roles that could just as easily be for men, and not portrayed in roles that could just as easily be for women.”
Shameless (Playboys in Love #1) Page 9