Drilled

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Do you doubt that I can—and that I will?”

  I thunk my head back against the door several times, barely holding back a whimper. “Hell no. But I plan on making you work for them.”

  Oh god, oh god, oh god—do I ever make him work for them. I keep my moans and whimpers and screams bottled up tight as he laves and licks and fingers and fondles. I bite my lip and nearly sever my tongue, but I keep quiet.

  Until he adds a second and third finger, curling them just so, and flicks my clit with his tongue—all this at once is too much, and the ramping climax that sears through me drags a gasping, whimpering, drawn-out cry from me, and then my legs shake and tremble and give out. Franco is there to catch me, standing up and scooping me in his arms.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit! I didn’t want to show weakness, didn’t want to let the orgasm get the better of me, and didn’t want to need his arms around me like this. Stupid. Shouldn’t have let him in. Shouldn’t have gone on the date.

  It was a date.

  And a damn good one at that, too.

  His arms under my thighs and around my shoulders feel much too comforting and comfortable. His eyes on mine are blazing and yet somehow distant—as I know mine are. I know exactly why he chose to do what he did—why he chose to kneel in front of me and go down on me. It’s what I’d do, in the reverse situation. Anything to keep from feeling the connection.

  Damn him.

  Because I do feel it. That orgasm was the tip of the iceberg and we both know it. That was one rep in our warm-up set.

  I feel him moving, walking—and I only realize then that my eyes are closed and I’m focusing with gritted intensity on just breathing, on not lovingneedingcraving his mouth and his kiss and his hands and his body.

  Jesus, what is he doing to me? How can he make me need this so fucking badly?

  He sets me on my bed. When I open my eyes I see him standing in front of my balcony, his back to the glass, facing me. Backlit by the summer sunset, orange and red and gold, bathing him in sun-limned glory. Hair loose, framing his angular jaw and piercing, scintillating blue eyes. He’s gazing at me, his expression hard and closed off and inscrutable—and I begrudge him none of that.

  I sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed, planting my heels on the Persian rug under my bed that covers my pale blond hardwood floors. I didn’t intend for him to come here—my bathrobe is on the floor near the door to my en suite bathroom, my workout clothes are rolled inside out and discarded nearby. A bra hangs from the bathroom doorknob, and my underwear drawer is open, thongs and briefs and boy shorts draped over the edge after my hurried rifling to find the set I’m wearing. My bathroom is a mess, makeup everywhere, a hair dryer plugged in and balanced on the edge of the counter, my box of tampons still sitting open on the floor beside the toilet. The bedside table drawer is open, revealing a Hitachi wand, a Womanizer, and a few other vibrators, strings of condoms of assorted sizes, brands, and styles, lubricant, silk handcuffs, and a sleep mask (read: blindfold).

  He sees all this in a sweeping glance, and I remember that he’s a neat freak.

  “I wasn’t expecting or prepared for company,” I say, by way of explanation for the mess.

  “I’m a neat freak, but I don’t expect everyone else to be.” His eyes go to the drawer, pursuing the contents. “I have a lot of questions, Audra.”

  I’m sitting on my bed, half-naked, trembling from my orgasm, and he’s fully dressed, standing across the room with a bulge behind his zipper.

  “You can ask, but I make no guarantees to answer, at all or truthfully.

  “I’d rather you not answer than lie.”

  “I figured,” I say. “But that’s the truth, ironically.”

  “The blindfold and handcuffs—for you, or for your partner?”

  “Either.”

  “When was the last time you were blindfolded and handcuffed?”

  “Three months ago.”

  “Last time someone else was?”

  “A little less than four weeks ago.”

  “Which do you prefer?”

  “Not answering.”

  “Why?”

  “Ruins the fun of discovery.”

  “So you’d let me use them on you?” he asks, shoving his hands in his pocket—and not so surreptitiously adjusting himself.

  “Maybe. Not tonight. And only if I could use them on you.”

  He sighs. “You know, being a neat freak and a perfectionist means I also have a bit of a thing for control.”

  “I figured as much.”

  He adjusts himself again. “Which toy is your favorite?”

  “Can’t answer that. They each have their own specific purpose.”

  “Explain.”

  “For making myself feel as good as possible as fast as possible, I like the Womanizer. If I’m horny and want to mimic sex without going through the effort of finding a guy, I’ll use one of the vibrators.” I lift out a large, knobbed, curved, silicone thing with a second smaller stimulator. “Usually this one. If I’m having trouble coming, or I just want to get off hard and fast, I’ll use the wand.”

  He eyes them all, and then his gaze rakes over me. He licks his lips, and adjusts himself in his jeans yet again.

  “Do you ever use toys during sex?”

  “Not typically, but I have.” I cross my legs, blocking his view of my center. “My turn.”

  “Your turn?”

  I crook my finger at him, and he crosses the room to stand a foot or so away from me. “Do you watch porn?”

  He shrugs. “Sure, sometimes. Not a lot, though. I prefer…the real thing, you might say.”

  “Have you fucked that hostess?”

  “God no.” He frowns. “You sound almost jealous.”

  I hate the burn in my chest. “Just wondering.”

  “I have slept with women younger than me, but ten years’ difference is my limit. The thought of sleeping with a twenty or twenty-one-year-old girl makes me feel like a predator.” He grins. “You don’t have to admit it, but you were jealous.”

  I hook my fingers in his belt loops—it’s a tight fit with his belt, but I have enough purchase to draw him closer. “You want the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “The whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  I unbutton his jeans, and then pause. “I was jealous. And that pissed me off, because I had no reason and no right to be jealous, and I’m doing my damnedest to squash it. I just didn’t like how she was openly hitting on you despite the fact that you were there with me.”

  He leaves his hands dangling at his sides, affecting an easy, casual stance—his eyes and his slow, deep breathing tell me otherwise. “Even if she’d been within a reasonable age difference, and even if I’d been alone or with a buddy, I wouldn’t have pursued anything. Behavior like that is a turn-off to me.”

  “Good to know. It is for me too.” I lower his zipper, and his package springs free through the opening. “Kinkiest thing you’ve ever done?”

  “Not answering.”

  “Fair enough. Something you’ve thought about, fantasized about, or otherwise want to do but never have?”

  He blinks in silence for a moment. “Damn. That’s pretty personal.”

  “And asking me about my vibrator isn’t?”

  “There’s a difference between how you masturbate and what you fantasize about, Audra.”

  I nod, eying the bulge, and then meeting his gaze. “True.” I reach down and bring his foot up, resting the sole of his boot on the bed between my thighs, slowly untying it. “My answer to my own question, then…” I take a deep breath, and focus on removing his boot and then untying the other one. “This is kind of weird, I guess. I’ve always had this fantasy of waking up to someone fucking me. I live alone and I’ve always lived alone, and I’ve never let anyone spend the night here, and I’d certainly never give a guy I was sleeping with access to my apartment. So it’s kind of a forbidden sort of thing, I guess.
I don’t know. It’s not a rape fantasy—that’s messed up, and no thank you. The fantasy is always someone I know and trust, and it’s always consensual, just…unexpected. I don’t know how else to put it.”

  He nods. “I get that, actually. More than you might imagine.” He thinks for a while. “So, let me go back and answer the question I asked you. I obviously don’t use a vibrator. I actually don’t jack off all that often, because like with porn, I prefer the real thing. I’d rather wait and let it build up until I can find someone to hook up with.”

  “Bet you’ve never had to look very hard.”

  He grins. “No, not really.”

  “So when you jack off…how do you do it?” I have his boots off, and his socks, and now I tug his jeans off, tossing them aside. He grabs his shirt by the back of the collar and hauls it off, and now he’s standing between my knees in a pair of tight black briefs. “I mean, if you don’t watch porn, how do you get yourself there?”

  He scrapes his hair away from his eyes with both hands, a slow, sexy swipe of his fingers over his scalp. “I have a few photos and videos I use—not taken by me, just…saved for that use. Or sometimes I just think about something recent. A visual memory, know what I mean?”

  I grin, nodding. “I do know what you mean. For example, this will probably be a visual memory I’ll use a lot down the road.”

  “What is?”

  I pull the elastic waistband away from his erection and slide the black undergarment down to his ankles, baring his huge, glorious cock. I wrap my fist around him, keeping my eyes on his. “This.”

  He swallows. “Oh.” His jaw clenches. “Yeah…me too.”

  There’s a hesitation in his statement, though, and I catch it. “What?” I ask.

  He frowns. “What, what?”

  “You hesitated just then.”

  He steps closer, reaches down to grab the hem of my top and drags it off me, tossing it behind him. A deft movement of his hands, and I feel my bra come loose; he breaks my grip on him so he can remove the bra from my arms and toss it aside, and now we’re both naked.

  “There,” he says. “Now it’s a memory I’ll never fucking forget.”

  “What—the taste of my pussy isn’t enough?” I say, teasing.

  He answers with all seriousness, however. “Not by a long shot.” Franco’s hands cup my breasts, thumbs running over my nipples. “These perfect tits of yours are the coup de grace.”

  I can’t help a flattered smile. “I see. I’m glad I could deliver the coup de grace for your spank bank memories.” I wrap my fingers around him again. “But I wasn’t done creating my own.”

  “Let me guess…you’re finally gonna show me what you can do with your mouth?”

  His words bring back a stark, vivid memory of yesterday morning. I shrug—and again, the movement draws his gaze. “Could be. You’ll have to stand very, very still in order to find out.”

  He just blinks at me, and then his eyes rake lasciviously down from my eyes to my breasts, to my core, and then to my hands as I wrap both of them around him, stroking him slowly. He huffs a quiet sigh, a sound of pleasure as I start touching him. His jaw flexes, clenches, and I see his fingers twitch with the need to touch me, to take control.

  He cedes it to me, however. At least for the moment.

  I have no illusions about how this will go—he’ll let me take him to a certain point, but then he’ll take over. I know his type, and I know he won’t want to “waste” it by letting me take him all the way. Not in a situation like this, at least. I file that thought away—if this goes any further beyond tonight, I’ll think about trying to get him to let me take him all the way.

  For now, I’m willing to let him do things mostly his way—I just want to get through this without getting myself into worse trouble, feelings-wise.

  This is already an unwise decision, to sleep with Franco again. I’m not even sure how we got here—it was just… I just find myself unable to resist him, which frustrates me to no end.

  But he’s listening, so far—he’s absolutely still. Breathing evenly, watching my hands slide up and down, slowly, squeezing now and then, cupping over the head and twisting back down. Thumbing the tip, just exploring the length of him in a way I didn’t get to last night—that was a hot and heavy and a wild rampage of sex with little thought to technique or exploration, just abandonment to raw need.

  This is different.

  I’ve given up pretending I didn’t know this was going to happen—why else would I have shaved my hoo-ha, or put on my most expensive lingerie? I wouldn’t have agreed to this whole evening had I not known, at least on some level, that it would go exactly where it’s going. More to the point—I wanted it to go here.

  I told Franco I have a three strikes rule, which is true. But the truth is, that’s my maximum limit, and most guys don’t get that far. I get tired of them after one. I rarely find a guy interesting enough, attractive enough, or good enough at making me feel good to want more than once with him. Fewer yet are the men who are all of the above. Some men have a special magic which makes me want to seek his pleasure. When it comes to sex, I’m selfish. I can afford to be, because men aren’t hard to please as a rule. Let them fuck me, and they’ll come, guaranteed, and usually it’s a case of whether he can last long enough to make it worth my while, much less want more.

  Franco, damn him, has all of this by the truckload. And then some. Which is the root of the problem: I just plain old flat out want the man in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced.

  It’s whetted my appetite for him, if anything.

  He’s watching—the entire time I’ve been ruminating and mooning over this whole stupid situation, I’ve been slowly and gently caressing him. Not in an outright attempt to get him to come—I could do that in a minute flat if I really wanted to—but more just to touch him, to enjoy the feel of him in my hands.

  He’s getting impatient, I can tell.

  I just stare up at him, blinking slowly, stroking and caressing, one hand, two hands, up and down and hand over hand, without rhythm or pattern, until I see his jaw clenching and his eyes narrowing and his hands twitching.

  Without warning, I bend forward and take him into my mouth, and it’s so sudden and unexpected that he flinches, gasps, and then curses out loud.

  “Fucking hell, Audra. Jesus.”

  I smirk at him, pleased at the reaction I got. “Awww, Franco—I’m just getting started, sweetheart.”

  He groans. “I wasn’t expecting that, is all.”

  “Sure, sure.” I flick my tongue against the tip. “You can go ahead and admit you’ve never felt anything so good. Flattery goes a long way with me, I don’t mind admitting.”

  He breathes out shakily. “If I admitted that it would be the absolute truth.”

  I laugh. “I was teasing, Franco—I’ve hardly touched you. I’m not even really trying, yet.”

  “Well, it felt like the best thing ever.”

  “Isn’t it the best thing ever, anytime you get your dick sucked?” I ask, stroking his saliva-coated length with one hand.

  “Yeah, to an extent. But there’s also a definitive, actual best thing ever.”

  “And my one suck outranks all the other full blowjobs you’ve ever gotten?” I ask this skeptically, one eyebrow lifted, my hand stilled.

  “Would you believe I haven’t really received all that many? I’m usually too impatient to let it go that far.” He hesitates, sighs, and then continues. “Plus, the truth is, letting someone do that is also an act of giving over control, and I’m not great at that.”

  “You’re doing fine with me, so far,” I say, truthfully.

  “Yeah, well…you’re reaching the end of my patience.” Franco isn’t a growly sort of guy, on the whole, but he growls now.

  “I’ve barely done anything,” I protest.

  He laughs. “Yeah, exactly. It feels great, but I’m getting impatient to be inside you.” His eyes meet mine. “Which is why I so rarely let
anyone give me a blowjob that lasts more than a few seconds before I stop it in favor of other things.”

  In that case, I want to get another taste of him before he runs out of patience. I angle him away from his body and take him into my mouth. I start slow—just my lips around the tip in a slow, sensual kiss. But then, just as if I was kissing his mouth and getting carried away, I gradually take more and more of him into my mouth, and then once I have a mouthful of him I stroke him with my fists and flutter my tongue against him. More, and more, until I feel him at the back of my throat, and now I turn my eyes up to his, change my angle, open my throat, and take more. He grunts in surprise as I deep-throat him until my lips nudge against his balls.

  “Jesus, Audra,” he hisses.

  I smile—mostly with my eyes as my mouth is, um, otherwise occupied. And then back away, only to push forward again. Swallowing, tonguing, cupping his ass with both hands, I watch his reaction.

  “Fuck, fuck.” He pulls away, removing himself from my mouth with a pop. “Fucking hell, Audra.”

  I wipe at my lips with the back of my wrist, staring at him with all the sensuality I possess. “Told you I’m good with my mouth.”

  “I believed you, but holy shit, woman.” He’s breathing hard, and his stomach is tensed, and I realize he’s backing himself away from the edge. “You weren’t kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “You must not have much of a gag reflex. Damn.”

  I grin. “I discovered, totally by accident, that I don’t really have one.”

  His laugh is skeptical. “And how do you discover that by accident?”

  “That’s a story for another time.”

  He’s just staring at me, his expression hard to read.

  I laugh, uncomfortable with the intensity in his expression. “What?” I laugh. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Because I just don’t know what the fuck to do with you, Audra.”

  I frown. “Um…have really amazing sex with me, and then go home?”

  “Not what I mean.”

  “I know,” I breathe. “I’m being flippant.”

  “I know,” he murmurs. “Don’t be.”