Mildly amused that he hadn’t asked her what she wanted, Lille took the shot he handed her and downed it. He did the same.
She handed him her shot glass. He refilled them both and handed hers back to her.
She put it between her cleavage and leaned forward with her hands on the bar, using her upper arms to push her breasts together.
He paused with his shot glass halfway to his mouth.
“Come take the shot,” she told him, and he tossed down his shot and moved toward her. He knelt, sliding his hands under her breasts and cupping them before burying his face between her breasts and covering the shot glass with his lips.
She leaned forward, bracing herself with one arm and gripping the back of his head with the other. He was stroking her nipple as he picked up the shot with his mouth and knocked it back, all without touching it with his hands. Lille gasped, feeling like her nipple was connected by a string to her clit, loving the rough touch of his fingers, the working of his throat as he swallowed.
He sat back on his haunches, pulling away from her grip, and removed the shot glass from his mouth, dropping it on the floor. His eyes were hot as he stared at her.
She sat back, then reached back and unhooked the clasp of her bra, letting it fall to her elbows and then the floor.
She braced her arms on the bar again and leaned forward, admiring the picture she made in the mirror, her full golden breasts with their coral-tipped nipples drawn into tight little buds.
“Come suck them,” she ordered, and he did, barely seeming to realize that he was being commanded; rather, it was like he was drawn by some invisible line, tugging him to the tips of her breasts, which begged sweetly for his attention.
He knelt again, cupping her more fiercely in his hands, squeezing so that she made small noises of excitement and lust. His mouth fastened hungrily on the tips of her breasts and tugged, swirling his tongue around in rough, wet eddies, like a current.
“Oh, yeah. You like sucking my tits, don’t you?” she murmured. “I’m going to suck your dick tonight just like you’re sucking my tits, so you better do a good job. You better go all out.” Lille liked the shocked look on his face; she liked that she wasn’t what he expected.
Max’s erection felt as if it had swelled to epic proportions. He’d never had a woman talk to him like this, describe what he was doing to her. To his surprise, he liked it. He never thought he’d want a woman to talk more during sex, but this one could say anything she fucking wanted.
“Suck me harder,” she ordered, “and pinch the other.”
He did, just hard enough so that he knew it hurt, and her hips jerked forward.
“That’s it,” she gasped as he did it again.
“I want to fuck you,” he rasped, straightening to his full height and looming over her. “I want to rip those leggings down your legs, spread you apart, and pull you onto this hard cock.”
He tugged her hips so that most of her weight was supported by his hips instead of the bar. His cock was indeed hard. Rubbing it against her through the leggings, Max watched her reaction as she tilted her head back to meet his eyes. Her skin, dewy and flushed, was perfect even close up; her lips were full and slightly parted.
“Kiss me,” she ordered, and he did, for the first time without any anger, just taking her with his mouth because he so badly wanted to take her body. She tasted like tequila and lime, like a perfect beach afternoon, like a glass of whiskey and a good book.
She gave as good as she got, her jaw opening wide, her tongue dueling with his, all the while their bodies straining to get closer and closer. Max gripped her the way a drowning man in a river grips a tree limb to keep himself afloat, until he couldn’t take one more second.
He ripped himself away from her, boosting her back onto the bar with one hand while with the other he reached for the waistband of her leggings and tugged them roughly down, taking her thong panties with them.
The leggings and panties caught on her combat boots, so he roughly turned her over on her stomach on the bar, aware on some level that she wasn’t protesting, that she was encouraging him, her breath fast and rough. He spread her thighs, enjoying the lush feel of her, using his palms to hold her apart so he could see the pink of her, smell the salty slick scent of her arousal.
Her pussy was swollen . . . wet . . . irresistible; he knelt down again and worshipped her with his mouth, searching deep with his tongue with the initial foray and then gentling, searching with the tip of his tongue for the little pearl that would make her come.
She used her arms, pushing on the bar to arch herself farther back, pressing herself against his face while chanting, “Oh fuck, yes. Fuck, yes.”
She tasted sweet; the skin on her thighs was soft but resilient, her muscles bunched and tight as she strained for release.
“Fuck me now,” she demanded, and that was one order he didn’t mind obeying.
In one smooth motion, he straightened and ripped open the fly of his jeans, grabbing her hips and pulling her back and down toward his cock. Using his thumbs, he spread apart the cheeks of her ass, watching as the head of his dick speared her thick, wet pussy.
Lille gasped as she felt Max push into her entrance.
“Wait. Condom.”
“Fuuuck.” His fingers pressed bruisingly into her ass, but then he pulled back and suddenly his hands were gone. She gripped the bar harder now that he wasn’t supporting her weight, nearly collapsing into a giant lust puddle.
She didn’t have to hold on for long. She heard the crinkle of tearing foil and then his hands were back, taking her hips while his dick found its way back home. He was big, stretching her, and she whimpered because it had been a long time since she’d felt this rising excitement. After a while, with Paul, it had been a chore, something she did because she was supposed to . . . but this, this was a rising, curling ache between her legs. She wanted to wriggle and shove and demand that he move faster, harder, fuck her hard. He was in control now, her hips controlled by his big hands, her legs restrained by her leggings on her lower calves. He couldn’t spread her legs very wide, so he was working himself in, using the moisture he’d so generously deposited with his tongue.
“God,” she gasped, dropping her head and glancing behind her as he shoved his full length inside.
He paused, looking at her.
“What are you waiting for? Do it.”
He did, pulling back, dragging his thick length out of her sensitive tissues. She moaned, desperate for him to shove it back in.
When he did it was like the one and only time she’d tried surfing. She’d fallen off the board into the waves and they’d caught her, tumbling her, dragging her back and forth, until she was desperate for a breath, her heart racing, her lungs struggling as she fought and fought. He dragged her back and forth, his hips pistoning, and she wanted to capture and hold him, take him, and then suddenly her body was gripping him of its own volition, squeezing and milking him while she shuddered and moaned.
He came shortly afterward, roaring and bruising as he jerked against her.
They collapsed into a sweaty, breathless heap onto the recently cleaned rubber floor mats that covered the floor behind the bar.
Lille was on her knees, her leggings twisted around her ankles, Max’s hard body surrounding her. She reveled in it for a moment, in the shudders that caught her by surprise and made her breath catch, but then she began to feel trapped; she couldn’t move her legs, and he was heavy.
She couldn’t breathe, so she shoved him with her elbows.
He obligingly moved to the side, withdrawing from her completely in the process. She heard him curse as he removed the condom.
She stood, pulling up her leggings as she went.
When she was covered, or at least the bottom half of her was, she shoved her sweat-dampened hair out of her eyes and glared down at him.
Half-collapsed on his side with his now soft dick visible in the open fly of his jeans, Max looked both satisfied and wary.
“I’m not done with you yet.”
Max glanced up at the bare-breasted goddess above him, taking in the picture she made in her black leggings and combat boots, telling him she wasn’t done with him, and found the sense of humor that had eluded him for some time. She was the damndest woman.
“Well, thank the Lord for that, then.” He glanced down at his fly, where his dick was once again stirring, growing thicker and longer within the frame of his jeans.
“Indeed,” she agreed in that superior tone she had. “Let’s go back to your place.”
CHAPTER Eight
Lille drove Max’s truck, pleased by the power and height of the vehicle. She’d refused to let him drive after drinking so much, though the house was only a mile or so away.
“I like your truck,” she told him.
He sat sprawled in the front seat, pissed off that he wasn’t driving. Get used to it, she thought. She intended to stay in the driver’s seat all night.
“When we get to your house, I’d like you to strip down so I can admire you. I’d like to trace your tattoos with my tongue.”
Max felt his cock rise despite his irritation with her. He sat up a little straighter in the passenger seat, which he’d never sat in to his recollection.
“And then I’d like to do what I promised earlier, to reward you for being so compliant tonight.”
And just like that, he was both pissed and painfully hard. The woman was a damn witch. She was talking about sucking his cock even as she thanked him for obeying her like a damn lackey—though he was sure that most men in his position would jump at the chance to get worked over by such a woman.
“How do ye know I’m not going to grab ye and have ye do as I say?”
She gave him an amused half smile. “Because you’re enjoying yourself too much.”
Damn. I am, he thought.
She pulled into his driveway a little too quickly, stopping just inches from his garage door.
She turned to him, waiting for him to comment, but all he could think about was having her suck his dick.
“Get out of the truck,” he ordered, digging his house key out of the pocket of his jeans.
She laughed, brushing his hand aside. “Here, let me do that.”
She proceeded to remove his keys with the slowness and care of a surgeon removing an organ, making sure to touch said organ as much as possible in the process.
He leaned back and enjoyed it, running his hand over her back in slow circles.
When she finally pulled his keys from the increasingly tight confines of his pocket, his eyes were hot with lust. She dangled the keys in front of his eyes, then moved them aside to plant a kiss on his mouth, a soft, lush kiss that lingered.
“Let’s go fuck, handsome.”
She didn’t have to tell him twice. He’d already rounded the front of the cab by the time she’d gathered up her bag and stepped down onto his driveway.
He scooped her up and over his shoulder, carrying her up the short concrete path to the front door. She let him get away with it, partly because she was pleased with him, partly because she liked that he was so strong. He set her down and took the keys from her, turning away from her to the door while she stroked his ass through his jeans. He dropped them twice, cursing, and she laughed, delighted. He’d made her forget her worry about the strange man with the Las Vegas card, about the mistake she’d made pretending with Paul, about everything except this big, sexy man who wasn’t about to fall head over heels for her pretty face. He was as gorgeous as she was, if not more so, which was a novel experience for her to say the least.
He finally got the door open, gripped her elbow, and hauled her inside. She let him, enjoying the caveman routine, confident that he was still willing to follow her lead . . . for now, anyway.
He shut the door behind them, still holding her elbow. She stepped away in the cool dark of his entryway. The house seemed new, as opposed to Mary’s smaller 1950s version, with curved entryways leading to an open-floor plan and high ceilings. When she turned to face him, the only light came from behind him, the porch light shining through two long, narrow windows alongside the door. The light looked blue and cast his face into deep shadow.
He looked . . . conflicted. His body was tensed, waiting and watching like a man about to cross a clearing who knew there were hunters in the woods. He wanted her, he wanted her badly, but he didn’t like it, and he didn’t usually let a woman call the shots—so why was he letting her?
Lille pulled the cuffs and the cock ring out of her purse and then set the purse down in the entryway. His eyes lit on the toys she’d brought out, but he didn’t say anything.
“Why’re you doing this?” Lille hesitated to ask such a question. She knew why she was doing it—because it made her forget, because it was fun, because she felt in control and powerful. A line from a Smashing Pumpkins song rolled through her head, I’m so easy tonight.
“Are we talking again?” he growled, and stripped off his shirt, dropping it on the ground next to a pair of flip-flops and a plastic-covered newspaper.
“No.” She shook her head. “Fuck it.”
“That’s right,” he agreed. “You’re going to fuck it.” He slid one hand into her hair and gripped, just gripped, a world of frustration raising the tendons of those beautiful wrists. She turned her head; she had to work at it, pulling her own hair, but she finally managed to kiss his tattooed wrist, right on the open pages of the book.
She watched him the whole time, saw his eyes darken like a shark’s, and when she knew . . . knew that his control had broken, she bit him on the wrist, hard enough to hurt, hard enough that he cursed, but he didn’t let her go.
“Take me to your bedroom.” She whispered it, soft and low, the slow purr of a dangerous creature, a deadly one, but irresistible nonetheless.
He pulled away, catching one of her hands and tugging her into the main living area, which was lit only by the light of the moon, and down a short hallway to the right that had two doors on either side and one door at the end. It was open, but too dark to see anything.
Lille didn’t like the way it felt to hold his hand as they walked in the dark; it wasn’t unpleasant—far from it. His hand was warm and calloused; it swallowed hers completely. It made her feel safe and kind of soft inside . . . vulnerable. She was having none of that.
She pulled her hand away.
He glanced behind him, but she angled her chin, directing him to proceed.
She admired his muscled back as he walked. It was strange; she had thought of him as older, but as he walked, she realized that he had the shoulders of a younger man, or at least younger than she’d believed him to be. A giant mermaid covered his back; she had the same face as the statue of the one in the store. She was lying back, her head resting near his left hip, the long tendrils curling toward his right hip bone, over the top of his buttocks and down his right hip and part of his thigh. Her tail curved downward near his right shoulder blade, fanning out in sea green. Eyes partly closed, she seemed to be floating, dreaming of a lover, perhaps. Lille thought that maybe Max was a bit of a romantic underneath. She wondered what had made him such a cynical, shallow asshole.
They stepped into the room, which wasn’t very large and was dominated by a huge king-size bed with a tall redwood headboard carved in an art nouveau pattern. There was a large rail in the center that curved upward into two arches. Lille didn’t want to ruin the bed; she had intentions for that rail.
Two end tables sat on either side of the bed, both with plain lamps that looked as if they’d been purchased with an eye toward practicality rather than beauty. He turned on the one on the left side of the bed, which was clearly his side; a deep blue coverlet was on the floor where he’d apparently kicked it off.
He also opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out a handful of condoms. A practical man, Lille mused. I’m actually a little shocked.
He turned to look at her, the muscles in his chest bunching and rippling as he unconsciously clenched his fists.
She wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t going to hurt her unless she asked him to, but he wanted to . . . just a little, just enough. She might even let him before the night was over.
“Take off your jeans,” she ordered him, setting the cock ring on the bed, and shifting the handcuffs from hand to hand, listening to the tinkling of the small chains in between.
He did, undoing his fly slowly, provocatively, mockingly. She ignored his expression, watching as an enormous erection was revealed. He wasn’t wearing underwear, nor should he—ever.
His cock was already hard, the circumcised head deep purple and pointed toward his belly. She remembered how it felt when he’d shoved it inside, how good it had felt, how he’d stretched her and filled her completely.
She looked up at his face, at those bright blue eyes, and wondered what he was thinking. Is he like me, she wondered, or does he consider the person he’s fucking? Does he ever wonder if they like cartoons, or skinny-dipping, or chocolate anything? She tried to never wonder anything. If there was anything her relationship with Paul had taught her, it was that she wasn’t suited for a committed relationship. She’d been faithful, but fucking Paul, while familiar, had never felt personal to her, either. He had almost been too appreciative, almost like he worshipped her. Sometimes he would just stare at her, and when she asked what was wrong, he would simply say, “You’re so beautiful.”
He did whatever she asked, all the time, willing to let her have total control. She’d never understood that insane surrender described in novels, that eager overwhelming ecstasy that overcomes a person’s soul. She wasn’t even sure it really existed. One thing she was certain of, she would never find it with a man like Max, who seemed humorless and a bit grim, a bit too like herself, she realized.
The ghosts that haunted them both filled the room and made them wary and angry and unwilling to share more than pleasure. So I’ll enjoy his body, she determined, and stop wishing for something I will never have. It was certainly a fine body, one she wanted to touch and lick and rub, with the kind of definition that reminded her of wind-carved rocks and riverbeds.
The Fetish Queen, Part One: Reborn Page 7