by Cole, S. Ann
“Nails,” he groaned, nostrils flaring.
Thinking that I was hurting him by gripping him too hard with my long-nailed fingers, I immediately released his thighs.
“No, fuck, no!” he growled, grabbing my hips and urging me to ride him harder. “Sink your fucking nails into my flesh, Krissan. Hard. Let me feel it.”
Then I remembered what he told me earlier about his predilection for pain. Though it was kind of weird for me, I complied without hesitancy and gripped his thighs, sinking my nails into his flesh.
His eyes slammed shut as he groaned a sound that could only be described as raw pleasure. “Harder, babe,” he spurred on, rocking my hips faster.
The sight of him beneath me, twisted in pleasure, tensed, his body arching up off the bed, his neck exposed with bulging veins as he pressed his head back into the mattress while thrusting himself up deep inside me, was, hands down, the sexiest goddamn thing I’d ever seen.
Ever.
This man was sex personified. Sex. Raw sex. Sinful sex. Sex in the damn flesh. Just sex. The burning sight of him sent me into an instant, unprepared-for explosion. And I shattered into the hardest, longest, most intense orgasm I’d ever had. My fingers digging deeper into Trevillo’s flesh as my orgasm seized my body and wrung me dry.
Trevillo gripped my hips tighter and began thrusting faster up into me, his breathing sharp and harsh, his face drenched in sweat. Then, the most erotic thing happened: he locked his eyes with mine, lifted me by the hips completely off his length, then slammed me back down on him and roared, yes, roared as he arched up off the bed stilled at his climax. Eyes never closing, never leaving mine, but boring into me, pouring into me all the pleasure he was feeling, with every spasm, every pulsation.
That’s when I came to the conclusion that, before Trevillo, every other sexual encounter I’d ever had was, compared to this, foreplay. This right here, was the real deal. My breath was snatched. How was I going to walk away from this in the morning?
Emptied, drained, Trevillo rolled over so I was on my back and he was on top of me. He slid out of me and got up to take off the condom. Knotting it at the top, he dropped it in a nearby bin and came back to lie next to me on the bed. One finger slid up my seam then straight up my body and was forced into my mouth. I sucked his finger, tasting myself, and he smiled a satisfied smile, his eyes hooded and sleepy. “Krissan Kingston, you are amazing.”
Rolling over on his back, he hauled me on top of him and pushed back the sweat-wet bangs from my face. “And I want to give you everything.” He kissed me softly, laid my head down on his chest and breathed, “Everything.”
And all I could think at that point was …
Shit.
Chapter 8
T. Nelson
Contemplating
Trevillo hit the line that refused to stop blinking on his receiver and answered with a cross, “What, Milo?”
“Sarah James is here to see you, boss,” Milo informed him, and he could tell the asshole was smirking. “Should I send her in?”
Trevillo rubbed at his aching forehead. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Sarah’s shit right now. He’d been expecting a visit from her since he’d had her notified of being dropped from the Skylark project. She took longer than he’d expected, and now she couldn’t have chosen a worst juncture to visit, because his mood was in the bitters. Had been in the bitters since Saturday morning, actually. However, he might as well deal with whatever tantrum Sarah was about to throw and get it over with.
He gave Milo the go ahead and seconds later, Sarah barged into his office. Attitude in full effect. Sarah James was a strikingly attractive woman. She was above average height, standing over six feet tall when she wore heels. Lean and sexy.
Long, coal-dark hair channeled down her back, almost hitting her waist, with feline green eyes having a natural come-hither gleam to them. As mentioned before, she was striking. And married. To a filthy drug dealer who used his successful insurance company as a front to hide his dirt.
And, oh, she was one of his fucks.
Sarah James was the only ‘affair’ he’d ever kept. Almost every other woman was once. If they were memorable, a couple more times, and he was done. He was dumb, but not that dumb. He challenged danger, but not that much. He let his cock rule him at times, but not that stupidly. Of course, he wasn’t going to stick around long enough for their husbands to blow his head off for screwing their wives.
Sure, his wealth was so vast he smelled like money, but that didn’t make him invincible. Husbands who love and cherish their wives will cap a bullet in your ass. No questions asked.
But Sarah, she had a little something going on for her. She knew how to touch him, when to touch him, how to make him feel pain and pleasure all at once. She knew her shit. So he’d been screwing around with her for close to a year. That’s a record.
But then she began to grow clingy and presumptuous; that made him start to take a few steps back from her. Kept reminding her she was married and he wasn’t willing to have his brains blown out by her trigger-happy, pussy-whipped husband.
Until he’d heard her mumble something with the word “love” entangled in it. That was it for him. He took himself the fuck out of there. But Sarah didn’t seem to get the memo yet, even though he hadn’t been with her in months. Now he’d dropped her from a project … Uh huh, this bitch was about to blow.
“Wanna tell me why you dropped me from the Skylark project, Mr. Nelson?” she gritted out, no preamble.
Definitely not in the mood for this.
“Because it seems you’ve been multi-tasking: creating shitty designs while deep-throating Johnson’s cock. Maybe even during a golden shower?” His forehead started throbbing harder with a headache growing more intense instead of subsiding. “You’ve grown comfortable and lazy, Sarah, and you’re giving me shit to work with.”
“I hardly have sex with Johnson anymore, and you know it,” she defensively shot.
Who gives a shit about her and her beach ball of a husband? Swear to God, the son-of-a-bitch was a triple-size version of Rolie Polie Olie.
“Sarah,” he said patiently, even though he was anything but. “I don’t care two fucks about what you do with your husband. ‘Cause he’s just that, yeah? Your husband.”
Sarah dropped her gaze and nodded.
“What I do care about is the quality of work you’re presenting. You haven’t produced anything innovative for a while now. Therefore, you won’t be assigned to anymore luxury projects until you get your shit together. Got that?”
She must’ve known she’d been slacking on the job because she didn’t react as he’d expected her to. She simply nodded again, sniffed, and rubbed her nose. He almost thought she was crying when she sniffed again, but that wasn’t it.
“Are you sniffing Johnson’s shit?”
Her gaze snapped to his at the question, and she immediately slid on that lecherous demeanor only Sarah James owned. “No, no. Of course not.”
She crossed his office and rounded his desk to perch on the edge in a lewd position that, once upon a time, would’ve had his cock fighting against his zipper, wanting out, wanting in. But not today. Not anymore.
Because he’d been fucked by an angel.
And he was beginning to believe there was no way to turn back once you’ve had your cock inside angel. You’re fucked, and then you’re owned. He learned angels were far more intense than demons. Which was why he’d been contemplating since Saturday morning whether he should go in the opposite direction to prevent being thoroughly ruined, or whether he should chase after the angel who’d fucked him like a demon, then flew away.
“So, who did you find with skills as good as mine to assign to Skylark?” Sarah inquired as she pushed aside his laptop and shifted her ass so she was spread wide in front of him, dragging her skirt up to her hips to flash him the goods.
“Someone who can get the job done.”
Trevillo swiveled his chair around, got up, and wen
t over to the kitchenette to fetch two aspirins. He knocked them back with a tall glass of water.
By the time he turned around, Sarah was in his face, her green eyes narrowed. “I hear it’s that dressy short blond Krissan Kingston. I know you don’t do young girls, but, you’re not fucking her, are you?”
“Sarah,” he said, losing his patience. “You need to get out of my office.”
She lunged forward and sank her teeth deep into the side of his neck. And it felt good. Man did it feel good. But his cock still wasn’t responding to her.
Elbowing her off, he pointed to the door. “Get the fuck out, Sarah.”
She flinched, and her expression seemed pained as she stared back at him, as if she was finally getting the message he’d been trying to convey to her for months now: this, was done.
“If you’re acting like this because you’re jealous of Johnson, Trevillo, I’m telling you the truth, I don’t love him,” she whispered. “It’s you. I want to be with you. Not him.”
Trevillo decided the woman had either lost a screw, or she was sniffing Johnson’s coke. Why in the devil’s hell would he be jealous of that corpulent piece of shit?
Clutching onto his lapels, she pleaded, “Please, you have to believe me, baby.”
Again, he wasn’t in the goddamn mood for this nonsense. He had a headache that wouldn’t subside, and this deluded woman was making it worse.
“Sarah, listen to me, I don’t care about you and your husband, get me? Don’t. Care.” He peeled her fingers off his jacket. “Whatever we had going on, it’s done. I’m bored with it. So please, just go. Any discussion we have after this will be solely work-related.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he turned and strode dismissively back to his desk. When he sat down and looked up, Sarah was throwing daggers at him with her eyes.
“You better not be fucking that girl, Trevillo. Or I promise, I’ll have the both of you fucked up.” Then she turned and stormed from his office.
Relieved of the nut case, Trevillo reclined back in his chair, tossed an arm across his face, and resumed his contemplation. Still contemplating. Since Saturday morning, he’d been goddamn contemplating.
The last thing he remembered after being screwed into drowsiness by Krissan Kingston on Friday night was falling asleep with her small body draped across his. Thinking to himself how deep he was feeling her. How much she made him want to give her everything. Make all her dreams come through. Yeah, being inside her was that good. Made his brain all warped and incoherent. Made him say things out loud that was supposed to remain in his head. Things he’d never said to a woman before.
He’d known. He’d known since they had lunch at Skylark that day, if he touched her, he’d be ruined. And he’d told himself he wouldn’t pursue her anymore. But after a week of not being able to dispel the images of her exotic beauty from his mind, he’d found himself on her doorstep.
On her doorstep! Him. Trevillo Nelson!
Swear to God, all he’d planned on doing was grabbing a few drinks and try to get to know her a bit more. There was something enigmatic about her, something she had hidden. On the outside, she was virginal. But when she opened her mouth, she was something fierce. High contrast.
Yet, it made her so damn intriguing. She was straight as an arrow and held nothing back. If she was angry, she showed that she was angry. If she was annoyed, she showed that she was annoyed. And when she was aroused, sweet fucking hell, it was all there, reddening her cheeks and darkening her eyes.
Her eyes, the dreamy look they got whenever she was aroused. The way she looked up at him as if he were a God. As if she were in awe of him. Damn if that didn’t send his brain into overdrive, his dick in a frenzy, and his heart on a marathon.
Krissan Kingston was what he’d never known. And it made him crave her. Want more of her. All of her. Everything.
So, true, all he’d planned to do was have a drink and talk. Nothing else, he swore it. But then … she bit him.
Then …
She bit him harder.
All plans got shot to shit after that. He’d wanted her immediately. Wanted inside her. With a need he’d never felt before. The need was too urgent. Too wild. Too … much. Just too much. And surprisingly, it scared him. Him, Trevillo Marco-Dean Nelson, got scared by his hard-on.
He’d fallen asleep with wild thoughts of all he wanted to do to, and for her. But when he woke up the next morning, he was alone in bed, and the angel’s feather was nowhere in sight. He almost thought he dreamt the whole thing, because he refused to believe he’d been fucked into oblivion and then ditched.
Never in a million.
For a few minutes, he’d made himself believe the night before was a dream, because that night, the things he’d felt, had been too good to be reality.
Until he went out on the balcony, saw the two wine glasses and had to accept the night had been real. That he had been screwed and ditched for the first time in his life.
Unfuckingbelievable.
Since then, he’d been contemplating. Whether he should go after her or not. He was reluctant because of the alarming pull he had towards her. The way he found himself unable to forget her. The way his cock grew rock-hard each time he remembered being inside her. The way he was just always … thinking … thinking … thinking about her. He couldn’t stop himself.
But as much as he was reluctant, he wanted her. He wanted to go after her. He wanted to make her his. Never before had he wanted to own anyone. His style was borrowing women who were already owned. But now he found himself wanting to possess this girl and lock her away. From the eyes of anything with a dick.
Especially from her so-called brother who clearly wanted to fuck her. He couldn’t figure out if Krissy was oblivious to his desires, or just not acknowledging them. Either way, Trevillo hoped nothing would come of it.
It was Monday afternoon, and Trevillo was still contemplating.
To chase her or not to chase her?
That was the question …
Chapter 9
K. Kingston
Breathing
The chimes above the salon door went off as I pushed it open. Marsha glanced up at the sound and waved me over to her station where a client was walking away looking satisfied.
Marsha Rickettes, a thick-legged, big-booty, hazel-eyed Armenian with black bobbed-hair, had been my best friend for four years now. She swore like a sailor, never beat around the bush, suffered from neurosis and was straight-up awesome.
She was one of Jahleel’s random hookups who wanted ‘more’. And when he’d treated her in true Jahleel fashion, she’d taken it harder than all his other girls — like, breaking-dishes-over-his-head, slashing-his-jeep-tires and threatening-to-cut-his-balls-off hard — and I felt sympathetic enough to empathize with her, which resulted in us becoming close friends.
I tried convincing Jahleel to make things up with her, to give her a chance, but all he did was turn her into an Again. Same treatment repeated. Yet, the martyr Marsha was, she kept going back for more.
After a year during which she claimed she was over Jahleel, she found a rich douche to knock her up. I referred to him as Prime Douche, because, well, who gets a woman impregnated, then leaves her a quick three months after the baby’s born without explanation?
That’s what Marsha told me, at least. Even though I found it odd and out-of-the-blue, considering the fact that he flat-out loved Marsha. At the news of her pregnancy, Prime Douche bought her this hair salon to jump-start a career in what she did best — hair, nails, and make-up — and then he’d gone ahead and bought her a house. Talk about an overly excited soon-to-be dad! Every step of the way, he’d been there at her beck and call, one hundred percent supportive. Then baby Claire came, and poof, Prime Douche was gone. Like smoke. Not a trace of him left behind.
Marsha smiled at me as she withdrew a tail-comb from inside the wide pocket of her apron and tapped on the back of her chair. “Sit. How shall I chop you up today? Rihanna? Miley Cy
rus? Pink?”
Plopping down into the chair, I answered, “No idea. And that’s a first. How about an Amber Rose?”
Marsha whacked me with the comb. “Hell no! You crazy, bitch?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Think I’m having a Britney Spears moment.”
Fastening a cape around me, she swiveled the chair around and stood behind it looking at me in the mirror with her mouth twisted to one side; the concentrated expression she got whenever she was deciding on what to do with a client’s hair. She brought a hand up and around to the overgrown bangs and ruffled them with her fingers.
“Okay,” she began, decision made. “I’m gonna make these heavy bangs thinner and higher so your eyebrows are visible. Then I’m gonna fade down the back and the sides, low, but not too low. Then I’ll re-shape your eyebrows into sharp-elbows which will make your features more striking, especially when you smoke your eyes. No celebrity copy this time. Today I’m gonna do Krissy K, cool?”
Rolling my eyes at her, I sat back and let her work. She didn’t know how honest I’d been about having a Britney Spears moment. Over the past week, since I did the famous Krissy K sneak out, to a certain Trevillo Nelson this time, I was going insane.
Unhinged. Unfocused. Daydreaming. Guilt-ridden.
Never before had I given a second thought to my one-nighters. But this time wasn’t the case. This time I wanted more. I wanted more of Trevillo. I wanted to go a second time and maybe even a third. I wanted to make him an Again.
Since last Friday, I fell asleep each night thinking about how earth-shattering sex with him had been. The image of him tensed and tight with pleasure and arched up off the bed was burned into my mind and wouldn’t leave. The sound of him roaring like the freakin’ king of the jungle as he came wouldn’t leave my ears. The all-masculine smell of him wouldn’t leave my nostrils. And I wanted more. Much more.