Tears that meant so much.
Joy, that I wasn’t broken.
Relief, because three years worth of repressed sexual frustration were finally coming to an end, and he was about to break it open, burst it apart, shred it all to pieces.
And tears of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, because nothing in my life had ever felt this good. Nothing, not ever.
My eyes were squeezed shut, my hips were writhing and rolling and pistoning uncontrollably, unashamedly riding his fingers.
When it began to pass through me and wash over me, I clenched my jaw tight and my eyes tighter and screamed past my teeth and my body went taut as a piano wire, feet pressed against the floor boards and shoulders and neck against the seat back, the rest of my body arched up and suspended, hips flexing involuntarily as everything inside of me burst open, detonated.
But he wouldn’t let me just ride it out. Oh no. He had to talk. “Open your eyes, Lola.”
My eyes flicked open. And god, his eyes were so fucking blue, so fierce and piercing.
“Don’t you fucking dare take your eyes off me.” He kept fingering me as the orgasm continued to expand, but now his attention was solely on me. “Look at me, Lola.”
“I’m—oh god, oh god, oh god!” The last god was sobbed, because I couldn’t help it anymore. It felt so good, so perfect, as if the universe was aligning to make me feel this bliss for the first time in my life. “I’m looking at you—oh, oh, ohhhhhh fuck—I’m looking at you, Thresh.”
He suckled my nipple. “You—”
Flicked the other with tongue-tip. “Are—”
He rubbed that spot inside me with his fingers and ground his thumb against my clit, and I was wracked and gasping and couldn’t look away from his mesmerizing pale ice blue gaze. “So—”
And then, damn him, damn him, damn him…he kissed me. Once, a soft, brief, searing kiss, tongue feathering against mine, scouring my lips and my teeth and my tongue, a single kiss that rocked me to the bottom of my ruined heart.
“—Beautiful,” he said, pulling away enough to whisper the word against my lips.
And that was it.
I couldn’t hold out anymore.
The climax was blasting through me in endless waves of ecstasy, yanking screams out of me and pushing sobs out of me and making me thrash and writhe on his fingers, and then when he spoke that phrase, each word punctuated with a touch meant to drive me wilder and wilder, I lost it.
Everything.
Every last vestige of my hold on the sobs.
I came, and I did it sobbing.
And his gaze wouldn’t release me, wouldn’t let me look away.
Because, goddammit, he meant it.
And that was what wrecked me. More than the orgasm, even though it was the most intense, brutally powerful, erotic, thrilling, beautiful, perfect sensation I’d ever experienced, those four words he spoke, with his open blue gaze luminous with the truth of his statement…that was too much.
Because it was exactly what I’d almost said.
Touch my breasts, I’d said.
You seem to like them, I said.
—And I need to feel beautiful—that’s what I’d almost said.
I came, and I came, and I came. It seemed like it would never end, the waves of climax. He milked every wave out of me, kissing my breasts all over throughout it.
And when I finally stopped orgasming, he withdrew his hand from my core and cupped my breast in his huge palm, rolling the heavy weight in his palm, thumbing the nipple—which made me gasp and sob and flinch all over again—and then weighed the other breast in his hand. He was playing with my breasts for himself, I realized. Not for me, not to make me feel good, but for his own enjoyment.
I couldn’t breathe, and I was still sobbing.
Which he, somewhat belatedly, realized.
“Lola?”
“You told me I’d cry,” I said.
Trying to angle away, trying to shrug my bra straps back up and my shirt back on and trying to tuck my breasts back into the cups and not look at him and not think about anything and not feel anything, because it was all bashing down on me, all the feelings I’d been pushing away for so long, plus the orgasm and what he’d said and how it had made me feel and the orgasm, Jesus the orgasm, still quavering inside me, making me shake and shiver and shudder as after quakes struck one after another.
“Well, here I am, crying.” I was trying to do everything at once, and managed none of it.
Except the crying.
“Well shit, Lola, I didn’t mean like this.”
7: ENDURE THE ACHE
Shitshitshitshit.
When I said I’d make her cry, I meant the kind of crying a girl does when an orgasm is just so powerful she doesn’t know how else to express it.
Not these shuddering, wracking sobs that shook her whole body.
These weren’t good tears.
These were the tears of someone who’d had something so seriously hardcore done to her in the past that it had fucked her up. Something serious enough to make her shut down and refuse any kind of sexuality whatsoever. Something that left her unable to even talk dirty.
She wouldn’t look at me.
Her breasts were still hanging out of her shirt—and Jesus fuck and holy shit, those tits were pure perfection. More perfect than I’d even fantasized about. Huge, juicy, softer than anything I’d ever felt, quivering with every movement she made. God, I couldn’t get enough of them.
But she was having a full-on panic attack, made worse by the fact that she was bare from the waist up and had just had her first orgasm in three years, and couldn’t seem to make her hands work because she was sobbing and trying to get away from me, or herself, or just everything.
“Lola.”
She shook her head, and god, god, those tits bounced and shimmied, and my already painfully hard, diamond-hard cock hardened even more.
No time for that, though.
I touched her jaw with my index finger, and tilted her face to me. “Look at me, Lola. Please. Just…look at me.”
She twisted her head, peering at me through partially closed, tear-wet eyelids. Heaving, fighting sobs, teeth clenched, hands shaking. “Don’t, just—don’t.”
“Look at me, Lola.”
“I AM!” she shouted.
I held her gaze, steady and even and calm. “Breathe.”
She shook her head again. “I—I can’t. I can’t.” She began to shudder and convulsing sobs wracked her body. “I can’t catch my breath—” Beneath the hurt or whatever it was I’d caused, was the panic attack fear of not being able to breathe.
I leaned close to her, slowly, cupped the back of her neck, pulled her face to mine. “Then take my breath.” And I kissed her. Softly, gently, slowly.
I’d never kissed anyone the way I kissed Lola Reed in that moment. With every emotion inside me, with everything I had, I kissed her.
She sank into it after a moment of surprise, and her sobs slowed, and she slowly began to lose herself in the kiss, and god, I could lose myself too, because her lips were so fucking soft, so wet and warm and pliable and she kissed me desperately, beyond passion, beyond desperation, as if kissing me could fix whatever was wrong with her.
I didn’t let myself get lost, though.
Usually when I kissed a girl and she started to get into it, that’s when I’d make my move, slide her straps off so I could get to her tits. But in that moment, that kiss with Lola, I did the opposite.
I tugged one bra strap into place, and then the other. Tucked one breast into the lacy red cup of the bra, and then the other. Pulled up the straps of her tank, and then she was covered.
Sad, but necessary.
I broke the kiss, and she rested her forehead against mine and sucked in long, deep breaths, held them for three or four seconds each, and then let them out slowly. Her fingers knotted in my shirt over my chest as she fought to calm herself. Then, after a minute or so of breathing, she backed away, rubbed my che
st, then slid her hands around to the back of my neck and the back of my head, and her eyes met mine, finally, still tear-hazed, but calmer and clearer.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
I frowned. “For what?”
She huffed a disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Thresh. Everything? For making me come? For telling me you think I’m—” she stopped, shook her head, ducking. “For telling me you think I’m—”
She couldn’t even say it?
“Beautiful, Lola. That’s the word you’re looking for.” I touched her chin, lifted her face to mine. “More than beautiful. You’re sexy. You’re gorgeous.”
“Stop, Thresh.”
“Incredible. Delicious. Fine as hell. Foxy as fuck.”
She chuckled at that last one. “Oh my god. Stop!”
I held her jaw so she couldn’t look away. “Not stopping, Doc, so you’d best pay attention.” I leaned in, teased a kiss. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, Lola.”
She jerked out of my grip, turning away. “Almost had me until that one, Thresh.”
“Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m bullshitting, Lola.”
She hesitantly turned back to look at me, and I gave her as much honesty in my eyes as I could muster. I meant what I said. She really was the most alluring, beautiful, sexy woman I’d ever met. She just didn’t believe it.
“I’ve met Hollywood A-list actresses, models, porn stars, pop stars.” I held up a hand to forestall the protest I saw forming. “And yeah, those chicks were all pretty gorgeous. But they all had one fault.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Let me guess: they weren’t me.” She turned away again. “Nice try, Thresh.”
“That’s not what I was gonna say, as a matter of fact.”
This got her curiosity. “Oh? Then what? What could I possibly have that models and porn stars don’t?”
“None of them turned me on. They didn’t make me crazy.” I palmed her cheek. “You…Lola, you make me crazy. You make me think, and say, and do things that are utterly unlike me. You make me so fucking horny it hurts, and that was before I got to see your tits. I nearly creamed my pants just touching you. I’m still so fucking hard I’ll have blue balls for a week.”
“Thresh—” Her voice was small, hesitant.
“And Doc, let me reassure you, that is not normal for me. At all.”
Her gaze flicked down from my eyes to my crotch, which was bulging to comical proportions. I had to adjust in the worst way, but I didn’t dare. If I so much as brushed my cock, I’d either spurt all over myself—which I hadn’t done since I was fucking twelve—or I’d be begging her to finish me off.
And she was in no way ready for that.
But once her eyes fixed on my groin, she couldn’t seem to look away. “Jesus, Thresh.” Her hand reached tentatively toward me. “That looks…uncomfortable.”
“You have no idea.” I snagged her wrist. “But I’ll be fine. And I didn’t say that just to get you to do anything about it. You’re not ready for that. I just want you to understand how crazy you make me. You haven’t even touched me, and I’m about to explode. That’s how much you turn me on, just by fucking existing, Lola.”
This got her attention. “Thresh…”
“Someone fucked you over. Made you feel…I’m not sure exactly what. Ugly? Maybe they size-shamed you? I don’t know. Something horrible. And if I could get my hands on him—”
She jerked her hand out of my grip. “Don’t tell me what I’m not ready for, Thresh.” Her gaze was fierce, determined.
“I’m not trying to, I just—you—” I lost track of what I was saying, because she had her palm cupped over my bulge.
“You’re right,” she said. “Someone did something really horrible to me, and it fucked me up.”
“And I don’t want to push you into anything you’re not ready for.”
She laughed. “If that was true, then I wouldn’t have just had the most incredible orgasm of my entire life. You do want to push me.”
“But not—”
She cut me off. “And I want you to, if I’m gonna be honest about this. You make me…feel things. You make me feel things I thought I’d never be able to feel again.” Her gaze went to mine, her bright brown eyes unwavering, rife with a flurry of emotions too numerous for me to sort out. “That’s scary, especially because I know you won’t be sticking around. But I like the way you make me feel. And I want more of it. Whatever I can get out of you, I want it.”
“Lola—” I started, but she had other ideas.
She put her finger over my lips. “Shut up. I have no idea what I’m doing right now, but I’m going to do it, and you’re going to let me.” She kept her finger over my lips to keep me quiet. “Just…sit there. Don’t move. Don’t talk. Just…let me do whatever it is I’m going to do, and—hopefully—you’ll enjoy it.”
“Lola, wait.” She lifted an eyebrow in question. “Don’t do anything for…for me. I don’t need anything. I didn’t make you come expecting anything.”
She smiled at me, and I saw that determination in her expression, as well as fear and nerves…and desire. “Thresh?”
“Yeah, Doc?”
“Shut up.” She brushed both sets of straps off her shoulders, tugged the cups down to set her tits free, and then did a sultry little shimmy that set them bouncing and swaying. “The fact that you covered me while I was having a panic attack, and the fact that you were able to help me breathe again, just by kissing me—that does something to me. Makes me crazy. And you make me want things. Want more. I want more. Of you. Of this. Of…whatever this is we’ve got going on. And I like the way you look at me, the way you make me feel when you look at me. I like the way you make me feel when you touch me. That orgasm, god, Thresh. That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever felt. Honestly, it was.”
“And now you want to touch me?”
She still had her hand on my bulge. Not doing anything, just holding, cupping, feeling. And I know she felt me twitch, and then harden even more when she bared her huge gorgeous tits for me. God, I was so hard it was all-consuming. Every drop of blood in my body was rushing to my cock, and I couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but the need for relief, and she was just cupping over my zipper, tits hanging out lush and luscious and tasty-looking, huge perfect globes of dusky flesh with wide areolae a few shades darker than her tits, and the tight hard darker-yet nipples…fuck, I was ready to pop, but I couldn’t, because I was all twisted in my pants, folded and bent and unable to harden to my full length, no matter how hard I got, and fuck did that hurt. And those tits…Jesus, they just made it worse, by which I mean so much better—and fuck I wanted her to touch me. I needed it. I needed it so bad.
But if she’d been messed up by a guy so bad she wouldn’t even touch herself—for three years? She was finally getting through all that shit, and I was honored that she was letting me help her past it, and I wasn’t about to mess it up for her by pushing her too fast.
So I’d do what she instructed: just sit here and endure the ache, and let her do what she wanted.
“Yes, Thresh. I want to touch you. But I’m not letting myself think about it, because if I do, I’ll panic, or freeze, or I don’t know what. And I do want this, but I just—” She shook her head. “See? I’m overthinking. Just stop talking, okay? Please? Just sit there and be huge and beautiful and let me…let me do what I want without interference.”
I leaned my seat back enough that I could recline, hooked my hand behind my head. “I’m all yours, Lola. Not a word, and I won’t move a muscle.”
Her eyes went hot, and dark, and fiery. “Perfect.”
8: MORE THAN A BLOWJOB
Part of me couldn’t believe I was doing this.
Part of me was screaming to get a move on because, holy hell, I might never get my hands on a man like this ever again.
All of me was nervous and excited and scared all at once.
I f
elt him under my hand. HUGE doesn’t begin to cover the scope of what I felt straining beneath that dark-wash denim. He had the seat back so he was partially reclining, his right hand under his head, trying to look casual. But I saw through it. He wanted to pounce. He was in pain, actual physical pain. And he wanted me; he wanted me.
He thought I was beautiful.
Sexy.
He’d made me come so hard I did indeed see stars. So hard I cried. For the first time in three years, I had an orgasm. That was no small feat.
And…for the first time in three years, I felt desire. I felt the yawning aching emptiness of need. I felt the yearning hunger, the excited thrill.
I wanted him.
I didn’t care about anything but this moment. I refused to let my fears hijack this for me. We were utterly alone, on the side of a desolate highway, far, far from anyone or anything. It was safe. He was safe.
This wasn’t then.
Thresh wasn’t…him.
To shake that train of thought away, I refocused on Thresh. With his arm behind his head, the improbable size of his bicep was highlighted, the girth, the round hard-veined scope of it, the curve of his shoulder and the angle of his trapezius…god. He was so well developed. Perfectly sculpted.
Having grown up being tutored in the art of weightlifting by my father, watching him sculpt his own body, I’d come to deeply appreciate the beauty of a well-developed male physique. And Thresh? He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Not too much, not pro body builder over-done, just…hugely muscled, sculpted, broad, hard. But I’d also watched him move, seen him strike faster than a serpent, seen him move on silent feet, as graceful and predatory as a jaguar stalking a deer.
I needed to see more of him; I caught his eyes, pushed up at the hem of his black polo shirt. He quirked an eyebrow at me, shrugged the sling off, and then ripped the shirt off in one lithe movement, grabbing the back of the collar and jerking it off, tugging it carefully past his cast—and…holy Jesus, the way his muscles shifted under his tan skin when he did that? I shuddered, my core—my pussy—clenching and quavering. God, his body. So fucking glorious.
Thresh: Alpha One Security: Book 2 Page 10