Текст книги "Fugly"

Автор книги: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

“You’re all talk, Mr. Cole.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he began running hard, fading out in front of me down the dark road.

No, you don’t. I pumped my legs and arms, pushing my body as fast as it would go, my lungs burning deliciously. Still, I could barely keep him in sight. Dammit. That man is in great shape. My only hope now was that I’d outlast him and pass him up ahead. The thing was, I wasn’t really a sprinter, but a long distance kind of gal. Hanging in there was my thing.

Fuck. It suddenly hit me—what he’d said earlier. It wasn’t a fair fight. That was the entire point of this run. So if I wanted to win, I had to play dirty. Because aside from finding a shortcut and cheating, I would not be going to Milan.

Then I had an idea. A very crazy one.

I glanced up ahead, barely able to see him as he took a path that cut eastward, through a stand of trees and toward the lakeshore.

Okay. He had to be getting tired because he’d been sprinting. If I pushed hard, I could overtake him right before he got to his house and then…he was going to get a little surprise.

I picked up the pace, my body pouring with sweat, the nocturnal bugs—crickets and whatever the hell else lived out here—clicking away. In the dark, I could barely make out the trail, but I kept charging on until I saw his faint silhouette again.

Okay. Here goes.

~~~

“What took you so long, Mr. Cole?” I said, standing on the edge of the dark dock, with my arms crossed over my chest, watching him approach in a cool-down walk.

“Seems I had a little accident back there. Thank you for stopping, by the way,” he said sarcastically.

It was dark, so I couldn’t see his expression, but if I had to guess, he was looking shocked as hell that I won.

“Yeah, well. Someone told me that fights aren’t always fair.”

Now standing a few feet in front of me on the dock, I could smell his delicious scent. Expensive cologne mixed with his fresh sweat.

“Here’s your shirt back.” He held it out. “Quite the bold move, Miss Snow.”

Seriously, I wished I’d had an infrared camera to capture the look on that man’s face when I’d whipped off my tank at the exact moment I ran at his side. Now, before you get the wrong idea, I normally didn’t wear a bra when I ran because I used those special sports tanks, but tonight I’d worn a regular tank. “What the hell are you…” he’d said, looking over at me several times while running, probably either trying to get a better look at my breasts jiggling in my white lacy push-up bra or wondering if I’d lost my marbles. Then I’d thrown my tank top in his face, causing him to trip and fall. I kept running and didn’t look back, just hoping and praying no one would see me running along the beach, cupping my breasts.

Yes. It was a full-on insane thing to do and not at all like me, but I’d done it. A calculated move, knowing it was dark out and would win me what I wanted.

I shrugged. “What can I say? I really wanted to go to Milan.”

“I would’ve taken you anyway.”

Ugh. Asshole! “So I just ran without a shirt for a quarter mile and would’ve gotten to go anyway?”

“Not really. But I wanted to make you feel bad. By the way, has anyone ever told you you’re completely mad?”

I laughed and turned around to unravel my tank top and slip it over my head, a huge smile on my face. “So, what time do we leave for the air—”

I suddenly felt his hot sweaty body pressed up against my back, his one hand on my bare waist, the other sweeping my long hair to one side. “No need to put that back on.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Wha-wha-what are you doing?” I whispered, feeling his hands slide up the front of my body and begin touching my breasts over my bra. He was hard. Really, really hard, and straining against my lower back.

“I think that’s fairly obvious; keeping our deal,” he said, his hot breath tickling my neck.

I was about to say something to explain how I didn’t really want him to do what he was doing, but it would’ve been a lie. The heat of his skin on my back, his hard cock pressing into me while his hands massaged my breasts felt better than anything I’d ever experienced.

His lips trailed down the side of my neck and stopped right on the little spot where my shoulder started.

How was this happening? Because wasn’t he…didn’t he have that problem with…?

“Oh my God. That feels…that feels…” My words faded as one of his hands left my breast and slid down my stomach, reaching to rub me over my thin shorts. I let out a little moan.

“Mmmm…your body is amazing,” he said. “So fucking sexy.”

His words shocked and excited me. No one had ever used the word “sexy” to describe me. Not once.

Then reality arrived like a boulder on my head. He didn’t like me. Not even a little. This really, truly wasn’t what I wanted. A fuck. With some guy who had serious issues just looking at me.

And he’s your boss. Doesn’t get much more screwed up than that.

I grabbed his hand. “Stop. Please,” I said.

“Ah. I wondered when your weak spine would make an appearance.”

I stepped away from him and went for my tank, which was a white little wad on the dock, barely visible. I slid it over my head. “I changed my mind. That’s all.”

“Why?” he said.

This time when I turned to face him, I wasn’t wishing I could see his face; I was wishing he could see mine. This was painful for me. “I’m not comfortable discussing it with you.”

He chuckled. “The topless runner is timid all of a sudden?”

He had a point, but being a little ballsy wasn’t the same as exposing yourself emotionally. Those were two different animals. And a man who’d posed nude—practically nude—should know the difference.

“No. I just really don’t want to have this conversation with you—my boss,” I said flatly.

“Don’t pull the boss card. I shared my secret with you. You can share yours.”

Why the hell did he even care? I was just a therapy tool for his phobia. And to be frank with myself, I wondered how he’d planned to finish what he’d started. Would we be in the dark so he could imagine some other woman’s face?

God, how degrading.

“All right,” he said, “if you don’t want to tell me, then I’ll guess. You’ve never been fucked before. And you’re probably stuck on some fantasy of your first time being with some knight in shining armor who will sweep you off your feet and tell you how beautiful you are.”

“No. I’m not delusional.” But I’d settle for someone who doesn’t find me repulsive.

“Good. Because we don’t get everything we want in life. We just don’t.”

I made a little half-laugh. It was what my parents always said. “Trust me. I know.”

“Then what is the issue?”

“Why do you care?” I asked.

“Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”

“Fine. I never wanted to sleep with you.” My words came out all rushed like a Band-Aid coming off.

“Really?” He laughed. “I hope you don’t think me an arrogant prick—oh yes, you already do—so there’s no harm in saying I think you’re full of shit.”

This man was…he was…

Sharp.

I suddenly felt the undeniable and simultaneous need to hide myself and open up. He was just that magnetic. Like a weird madness I felt the need to invite into my life.

I took a breath. “When I asked you to have sex with me, it was just something that came out of my mouth on the spur of the moment because I’d wanted to punish you with a nasty, spiteful price tag after you told me why you really wanted to hire me.”

“I wanted,” he said slowly with a deep, sincere voice, “to hire you because I like you. I like the fact that you’re genuine and say what’s on your mind. I admire that. Quite a lot, actually. You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”

My heart fluttered. It was a really, really nice compliment. Especially coming from someone who didn’t seem to hand them out so freely.

“Thank you,” I said.

“And to answer your question, regarding why I’m curious about your sudden lack of interest in fucking me, it’s because I think you have potential, but not the backbone to truly pursue what you want, without shame, without asking for forgiveness. You behave like you don’t deserve a seat at the table because your face isn’t perfect.”

Oh my God. This guy wasn’t afraid to say anything. He brought the art of bluntness to a whole new level. “Well, if you haven’t noticed, I’m not like everyone else. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve managed to make it this far.”

“Being audacious is not enough, Miss Snow. You have to believe you deserve the things you want and expect them to happen. Then you need the determination to see them through despite the obstacles. But you behave like a second-class citizen; it’s written all over your body—the way you carry yourself.”

I wanted to react to his words with the typical denials and arguments most of us throw up when we’re told something unpleasant about ourselves; however, his statement genuinely hobbled me, like being slapped in the face and waking up. I had been seeing the world through my face, always feeling just a little unsure of myself, like I was just one notch below everyone else.

I groaned and pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Well, I’m glad we had this little chat,” he said. “But I’ve got a company to run and problems to deal with, and I’m not paying you to sit around and snivel. So if you’re not in the mood for fucking, you can shower in the bathroom just off the foyer. We leave in ten.”

Oh, look. The asshole is back. “Ten minutes? Wooow,” I yelled as he walked away. “Good thing that fuck is off the table. I’d be finishing the job alone, you big stallion.”

He laughed, his deep wholly masculine voice cutting through the darkness. “The fuck is not off the table.”

What? I tensed for a moment until I realized he was just messing with me. “Yes, it is!” I screamed back. “And I want stock options.”

“No!”

“But you’re mean! I don’t want you and never will!”

“You’re lying. And a deal is a deal, Miss Snow! Get your ass in the shower, because I wait for no one.”

Crap. What if he wasn’t kidding?

Of course he’s joking. And if not, it wasn’t like he could fire me for backing out. In fact, now that I thought it through, I was probably the least fireable person on his staff—not that getting fired was ever my concern; I’d wanted his respect. Nevertheless, it had only just dawned on me what a huge risk he’d taken with me, which was probably why he’d talked to Mark Douglas about my trustworthiness. I already knew enough to ruin his reputation, and he had to realize that.

So why is he taking such a huge gamble? It didn’t make sense. Maxwell Cole had exposed himself to me. Not just now, but from the first moment we’d met. And there had to be a reason.

Lily, hellooo? Maxwell Cole just had his hands on your tits and his dick pressed against your back, and you turned him down. I whooshed out a breath. That really just happened, didn’t it?

And I suddenly wanted it to happen again.

Awkward. A word that defines something that is difficult to deal with or makes one feel uncomfortable. That would sum up my feelings after my “moment” with Mr. Cole on the dock. It would also describe every moment after that for the next few hours.

First, there was the fact that when I’d packed this morning, my mind had been in an entirely different place: sexscapade weekend with Maxwell Cole. Now, we were going to Milan on a business trip.

Why does this matter?

Because I’d brought all the wrong clothes, with the exception of my little black dress for Saturday night. The rest of my wardrobe consisted of running shorts and sports tanks, or tight jeans and short-shorts. I’d brought zero blouses or grown-up clothes.

“That is a lovely outfit, Miss Snow,” Mr. Cole said, seeming very amused as I approached the awaiting limo, where he stood next to the opened door, looking like he was modeling his outfit: jeans, a regular button-down, and a casual-looking, but perfectly tailored blazer.

Pulling my suitcase behind me, I looked down at my low-cut, cream-colored, full-body tank top that showed ample cleavage and had a lacy thong bottom. Of course, I wore my skintight jeans over the truly racy part, but the outfit was pretty sexy in the boob area.

“Next time,” I snapped, “tell me where we’re going, and I’ll bring a suit.”

He dipped his head. “Then not a chance.”

Oh, he was so enjoying this, wasn’t he? Yes, I was sure he got off seeing what a girl like me would’ve worn had we actually been having a very, very wrong, illicit-sex kind of weekend.

I huffed out a little laugh. “You can stop the childish gloating now, Mr. Cole. It cheapens your alpha-male mystique.”

He was about to say something when the driver scrambled from the front seat and ran over to take my luggage.

Carrying my laptop case and purse, I slid inside. Mr. Cole came around the other door, got in, and immediately began typing away on his phone. It was just after nine o’clock at night and we hadn’t even made it out of his driveway, but I already found myself wondering how I’d handle forty-eight hours with him.

Oh, stop. You’re not afraid of this guy. But that wasn’t really the problem. I was beginning to realize that I liked him. Not his body or his good looks, but his prickly personality and unabashed approach to life. I liked…him. The person. Just a teensy, weensy bit, and that unsettled me. The man was cold, ruthless, and…okay, he was hot. His unwavering self-confidence, smoldering hazel eyes, and smokin’ hot, male-model body were turn-ons, too. I liked that he didn’t shy away from showing me who he really was. Not that I knew him well, but it was clear he didn’t give a fuck about anyone’s opinion. And when I thought about his phobia, well, I wondered how many people out there would admit to having it, let alone tackle it head-on like he had.

Take an arachnophobe, for example. I wasn’t a fan of spiders, but I wouldn’t invite one into my bed. Yet, in this analogy, seeing a spider gave him panic attacks. Did that trip him up? No. He said, “Hiya, Spider. Come inside. Let’s get it on.”

Okay. Strange analogy. But when he saw something—or someone, I guess—that he found ugly, it triggered a physiological response that alerted his fear receptors. Yes, I took the time to read up on phobias. How could I not? The point was, his brain produced all of these mixed and erroneous signals that told his body he was in danger.

I sorta loved that because it made me feel bad. Me. Lily Snow.

And his way of handling his “challenge” made me start to seriously question how I’d been dealing with my own. Had I been facing it head-on? Or had I simply been trying to live with it? There was a huge difference between accepting and conquering. Accepting meant one tried to work around an issue, knowing it would never change. Conquering meant one pushed the obstacle out of the way. Total annihilation or domination.

That was when I realized I could learn more from Mr. Cole than the mere basics about running a company. He had his ugly. I had mine. He owned it. I did not.

By the time we arrived to the private airport, Mr. Cole was on his phone, speaking in fluent Italian—impressive—to someone about the show. He stayed on that call as the pilots—two nice older gentlemen with silver crewcuts—introduced themselves and got the plane ready for takeoff. Meanwhile, I occupied myself with trying not to gawk at the awesome corporate jet with full bar, five rows of sleeper seats (three in each row), television, workstation, bathroom with shower, and stocked kitchenette, where I found and attacked a bean-sprout sandwich. It was heaven.

Anyway, the travel accommodations were seriously nice. But of course, if your life was flying back and forth all over God’s green Earth, it probably felt less like an episode from Secret Lives of the Super Rich and more like Man (or woman) Versus Wild.

Nah, it’s cool no matter what, I thought, settling in toward the back to give Mr. Cole some space while he finished his call. I got out my laptop and started going over numbers from some of the client files. It seemed that Cole Cosmetics’ number one issue was overselling. Ten percent growth, quarter after quarter, and each customer had a double-digit percentage of order cuts. Meaning, C.C. couldn’t keep up with demand even with the new factory they were building in New Jersey.

I guessed that was a good problem to have. Except that shorting orders probably pissed off the customers, which opened the door for our competitors to come in and make them happy. Not good. And it wasn’t like Mr. Cole was stupid, which meant he had some other plan to boost supply that he hadn’t made public yet.

I’d have to ask Mr. Cole about it later. For the moment, however, the long day and effects of the emotional roller coaster were catching up. I shut off the overhead light and tilted back my seat.

~~~

I wasn’t sure of the hour, but my subconscious alerted me to a person in my space while I slept, awakening me from a very erotic dream comprised of a merry-go-round that had nude male strippers instead of horses. You fill in the rest.

When my eyes creeped open, hoping to hell it wasn’t my mother standing over me with a suitcase in hand, I was immediately jarred by a very curious view of Mr. Cole staring at my face, his body inclined in the seat right beside me.

I blinked a few times to moisten my dry eyes and sharpen my vision. “What are you doing?” I whispered.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he replied, lying on his side, his face less than a few feet from mine.

“So you’re staring at me?”

“Yes.” He kept staring. And then I noticed he wasn’t sweating or cringing, but really looking at me.

“Therapy,” I said, understanding the situation.

“You were asleep. Seemed like a good time.”

I smiled. Somehow, it didn’t bother me despite the absolute weirdness. Something about him just made me feel open to accepting things. “How’s it going?”

“Good, but it’s easy with you.”

“Easy how?”

“There are many things about you to like,” he replied in a low voice.

It was very sweet.

“And many things not to like.” He grinned.

“Ha-ha.”

He smiled, and it was a warm, genuine, heartwarming smile that made me wonder why he wasn’t like this all the time. And I don’t know what it was—maybe the dimmed lights and the isolating hum of the engines—but I felt like we were inside a safe cocoon, just him and I.

“What happened to you?” I whispered, wondering what could’ve caused this man to be perfect in almost every way, except for this.

“I’ll tell you, but then you’ll have to answer one of my questions.”

“What question?”

“A simple yes or no is called for.”

“Control freak.” I smiled. “Fine. Deal.”

He gazed into my eyes, and I wondered if that too was a safe zone for him.

“My mother happened,” he replied.

Oh no. Maybe I didn’t want to hear this. On the other hand, I’d asked. I couldn’t slam the door on this.

“What did she do to you?” I asked.

“She used to beat me and my older sister with wire hangers until our rooms were cleaned.”

I gasped, and then I noticed a spark of amusement in his eyes.

“Oh, you’re such an ass,” I said. “Mommy Dearest, huh?”

His smile melted away, his expression shockingly serious. “My mother was too good for wire-hanger punishments, but her obsession with perfection was always taken to the extreme. She couldn’t help herself—a behavior she passed down to me. My sister, on the other hand, just ended up being a very distrusting person.”

I remembered reading in his online bio—interview research, of course—that he had a sister who was a year older. I wondered if they were close like I was with my brother. I was about to ask when my mind suddenly made sense of what he’d just said.

“Wait. You inherited your phobia from your mother, didn’t you?” I asked.

He didn’t reply, but he didn’t have to. And his confession hit me right in the heart. Probably because it made me sad to imagine what it might’ve been like for him. The irony was that my mother was the exact opposite. My imperfections gave her purpose.

“Why are you smiling?” he asked.

It wasn’t really a smile, it was more like a smile-frown. “Because I don’t know what my mom would do with herself if I’d been born as perfect as you.”

“Perfection is an illusion,” he said. “So now it’s your turn. Tell me why you turned down my offer for surgery.”

I suddenly didn’t want to have this conversation any more. I inhaled a deep breath and looked away from him before setting my chair upright. I was about to say something, but my thoughts and words got all jumbled up inside my head.

“I have to use the restroom,” I announced like a moron, standing up from my seat.

Mr. Cole righted his seatback and then looked at me with a frown.

I knew what he was thinking: he’d told me his truth and now I was denying him mine.

“I’ll be right back. I promise.”

He nodded, and his eyes jerked to the side, indicating he wasn’t getting up for me.

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes and stepped over him. As I passed, he took the time to grip my hips and assist.

His touch sparked a moment of sexual flutters in my stomach. I liked his hands on me. I shouldn’t, but I did. “Stop that.”

He dropped his hands and shrugged. “Just making sure you don’t fall.”

I flashed a quick little glare and made my way back to the bathroom. I really did need to go, but I also needed to gather my thoughts. Call me weak or anything you like, but his opinion suddenly mattered. No, I wasn’t trying to come up with a lie or some BS about the answer to his question; I was trying to rally the bravery to be honest with him. In the exact same way he’d been honest with me. No apologies. No shame. Just the truth. There was power in the way he didn’t allow his challenges to pull him down, and I wanted to feel the same.

I splashed a bit of cool water on my face and patted myself dry with a paper towel. You can be more than brave, Lily. You can be you and feel good about it.

I opened the door and returned to my seat, where Mr. Cole sat with two tumblers in his hands.

“What’s this?” I asked, taking the glass.

“A very fine scotch,” he replied.

I scooted past him and sat down, sniffing the very, very tall glass of strong honey-brown liquid. “Smells like gas.”

He chuckled. “If gas were this expensive, we’d be flying in a weather balloon to Milan. Try it.”

I took a sip, trying not to let the unpleasant sting of the alcohol show on my face. It was sweet and had a cinnamon-like burn, but I didn’t like it. “Mmmm…” I tried to smile.

“You don’t drink very often, do you, Miss Snow?”

“No, but it’s good to try new things.” I threw back the entire drink and handed him the glass.

He laughed. “Remind me to stock the cheap stuff for the flight home.”

Oops. I guessed I wasn’t supposed to chug it.

Following my lead, he finished his drink and set our glasses down on the seat across the aisle.

His gaze returned to me with an expectant look in his eyes.

“What?” I said.

“You know what.”

Dammit. I wasn’t going to get out of this, was I?

I bobbed my head and looked down at my hands. The scotch had an immediate effect—a warmth in my chest and little rush in my heart. I suddenly didn’t feel so awkward sharing any more. Was that why he’d given me the drink?

“The reason I don’t want to have surgery,” I finally said, “is because I’m afraid it will make me unhappy.”

He lifted both brows. “Unhappy?”

“It sounds absurd, but everyone I know has their issues, too, and they aren’t happy. At least, not most of the time. Me, on the other hand,” I shrugged, “I’ve always felt so grateful for everything.”

“Maybe because you never expected anything. The higher one strives in life, the more pressure and disappointments you’ll come across.”

“So you’re saying I’ve been happy because I haven’t set the bar high enough?” I asked. Ridiculous.

“I don’t believe for a moment that you’re pushing yourself to reach your full potential. Case in point, you applied for a position you were overqualified for.”

I stared at the seatback in front of me for a moment, trying to digest his words, the scotch now running freely through my system. Maybe he was right.

“But tell me,” I asked, “if you were free from your problem, what would be different about your life? Would you be happier?”

“Good question. I don’t know. But I will never find out until I conquer it.”

“And you really, really think I can help you do that?” I asked.

He looked ahead for a moment, his stubble-covered jaw flexing. “My therapist believes if I successfully associate positive feelings with the things that trigger my disorder, then I will overcome it.”

I snickered. “And there it is. The truth.” I hit my knee. “You wanted to bang me so you could see if it cures you.” The moment those words left my mouth, I realized how crazy it sounded.

But then why is he looking at me with a cocky grin?

“I’m a man. Sex is a powerful thing. And then there’s you.”

His words hung in the air. I’d been right?

And me how?

I didn’t have to ask because his hand extended and cupped my cheek. The gesture took me completely off guard. He was touching me, his chest rising and falling quickly, while he studied me like some dangerous, exotic creature he found fascinating. No one had ever looked at me like that before.

“Nothing scares you, does it?” he asked. “Which makes you perfect in a way most of us will never experience, especially me. Take pride in that, Miss Snow.”

“I’m fairly sure you outrank me on the perfect scale.”

“It’s the other way around, Lily.”

How could he say that? He didn’t really believe that he was the more flawed person in this comparison. That would be insane.

But the subtly troubled look in his eyes as they toggled between mine and the window told me he was struggling. He wanted to look at me, but couldn’t. And it pained him. I wondered if anyone else but me would ever pick up on it.

I realized they probably wouldn’t, and I understood the sadness and frustration of feeling like this thing had been thrust upon you and, as best you tried, you couldn’t escape it. It controlled you when it shouldn’t. It got in your way and held you back. It was that horrible, self-deprecating voice in your head that undermined everything you did. Some days, it was louder than others, but it was always there.

Fuck. I looked up and drew in some air. I don’t know what came over me in that moment. Call it scotch. Call it the strange and brutally honest conversation we were having, but somewhere inside my mind, what we were doing felt far more intimate than sex. We were showing our insides to one another and the feeling of closeness—something I’d never experienced with a man—left me wanting more. The feeling was powerful and consuming and I think that only someone who’d been deprived of it for as long as I had could understand why I wanted to do what came next.

I stared down at my hands for a moment, my core tingling with the explicit thoughts.

“Close your eyes,” I said, knowing this was insane and, once I let it happen, there would be no turning back. But for once in my life, I wanted to feel like a real woman. Unashamed to feel sexual. Unafraid to take what she wanted. Powerful.

“Why? Are you going to punch me in the face?” he asked.

I slid my hand over his lap and rested it on his groin. “Not exactly.”

I half expected him to push it away in disgust, but he didn’t. Instead, he closed his eyes and tipped his seat back.

Well, twist the man’s arm. I couldn’t believe what I was about to do, but I wanted it more than I wanted to think or rationalize. And he seemed to be offering himself up freely for my personal exploration.

I slid from my seat, pushed up the armrest between us, and got down on my knees. I could already see him straining against his jeans.

God, he’s so perfect. I didn’t deserve this fantasy, but I wanted it anyway.

I maneuvered my way between his legs into the tight space at his feet and then began unbuttoning his jeans. When I glanced up at him, I noticed his sharp breathing and rigid posture. Both excited me. I liked having this effect on him.

Slowly, I finished unbuttoning his fly and found hard pink flesh awaiting me. No underwear. Did most men go commando? I didn’t know, but it was sexy as hell.

I placed my hand on him, and he gasped as I pried his hard cock free. I’d never seen a penis up close and personal, but it was more erotic and sensual than I could’ve imagined—the soft velvety head glistening with a drop of moisture, the veins pushing against the soft skin, and the thickness and length so substantial. I wondered how something like that would ever fit inside. Then there was the patch of male hair surrounding the thick base like a wreath of sin.

I must’ve been staring at it, holding it in my hand for way too long, because he grumbled, “Are we getting on with this or not?”

I glanced up at him and smiled. His eyes were still closed, and he looked tenser than hell. But something about conquering this man’s fears made me wet. I just hoped the videos I’d seen during my Internet explorations were accurate.

I lowered my mouth over the tip of his head, and he jerked his body. I assumed from his groan, he liked it. I, on the other hand, didn’t know what to make of the flavor. Salt and male musk. It was different from anything my lips could’ve imagined.

I slid him further in and enjoyed the instant power I felt from having his cock inside my mouth. I slid my head down, his hips pushed up, and his breath whooshed out. I drew back, and his hips pulled back. It was strangely delicious and sexy, and with each stroke of my tongue and mouth over his shaft, I felt like I was the one who was going to come.

He slid his hands to the back of my head, urging me to move faster, his hips pumping his thick cock in time with the movement of my mouth.

“Oh yeah. Suck it,” he groaned. “Harder.”

The gravelly, carnal sound of his voice mixed with his dirty words were like warm gasoline on my fire.

I moved my mouth faster and let the length of him slide back a little further.

“Fuck yes,” he whispered, cupping the back of my head more firmly with those two strong hands. “Fuck yes.”

This was the moment that I usually saw women do one of two things in the videos; take it on the face or suck it up. Both options did not seem too pleasing to me, but I’d started this little therapy session, and I had to end it. Him coming on my face was…well, embarrassing for me and probably counterproductive for him.