Текст книги "ARROGANT PLAYBOY"

Автор книги: Winter Renshaw

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 43 страниц)

CHAPTER 23

JENSEN

“Claire Fahnlander is obsessed with you.” I’m walking out of morning devotions Monday morning next to Waverly. So far Camp Zion is a carbon copy of Whispering Hills high school complete with the same familiar faces and one, miss Claire Fahnlander shooting daggers our way during prayer time.

“She’s always been,” Waverly sighs, hoisting her Bible and Book of Mormon on her hip as we breeze down the hallway. “She used to have a thing for Cade Corbin. Cade has a thing for me.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. It’s been going on since middle school.”

“So that’s why she doesn’t like you?”

“I guess?” Waverly doesn’t seem to care that much, which is a relief because I know how fucking catty these high school bitches can be. “I try to stay out of it.”

“Who’s Cade Corbin?”

“That guy right there.” She nods forward where a tall, lanky guy with surfer hair and a neon pink, popped-collar polo is walking toward us. He’s smiling at her like a love-struck puppy dog. Waverly stops at a drinking fountain. “He’s been in love with me for years. I think he just wants me because he can’t have me.”

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good knowing she came all over my cock the other night but she won’t give frat boy here the time of day. Almost makes a guy feel special.

“Hey.” Cade weasels his way up to us, edging me out with calculated intention. “So, uh, any plans this summer?”

Waverly smiles at him, laughing under her breath like she’s amused by his goofy grin and his California tan and those disgusting dimples. He’s showering her with attention and she’s lapping it right up like a kitten to milk. “Cade, you know I can’t hang out with you.”

“I’ve been waiting forever for this,” he says. “All those years of turning me down and you won’t at least let me take you on one date? Send me off to college on a high note?”

This guy’s fucking obnoxious, and I want to slap that smug grin off his face right here, right now.

“She’s with me.” I clear my throat as Cade whips around.

His smile fades. “Who’re you?”

Waverly shoots me a furrowed-brow look, which I’m interpreting as, “Protect the family secret,” but for all I know, it also means, “Don’t intervene, I actually want to date this douche canoe.”

I’m not a mind reader, so she’s out of luck.

“We’re together.” I’m not sure why that seemed like the best thing to say in that moment, but I’ve said it and now I have to own it.

Her jaw drops, her face paling. Cade scratches the side of his head, squinting at me.

“I thought you couldn’t date?” he asks her.

It’s funny watching her squirm and try to come up with some kind of impromptu lie, especially since she’s a horrible liar. I decide not to make her suffer too long.

“She’s not supposed to.” I inch closer to her, slipping my hand into hers. “It’s kind of under wraps, so I’d appreciate you not saying anything to anyone, man. Thanks.”

I pull her down the hall with me, leaving Cade to eat my dust. By the time we round the corner, she yanks her hand out of mine.

“Why did you do that?” Her words are delivered with a hushed heat. “What, you think because of last night, I’m with you now?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not. Let’s just make that clear right now.” I smirk, rubbing my hand across my mouth.

“You can’t just tell people we’re together.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” She wants to get angry at me, I can tell, but she’s still trying to wrap her head around how she feels about it. This will either bode well for me or it’ll be catastrophic. “Because it’s not true.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

She’s cute.

“I’m not supposed to date, and even if I were, you’re the last person on earth I should be associating with in that way,” she says. “Look, I’m already on thin ice, and if this were to get back to my dad…”

Her words trail off, like she’s afraid to finish the thought.

“I can handle your dad. Not worried about him.”

She’s quiet, but her face says it all.

“What, are you afraid of him?” I ask. “Or, wait, are you afraid to disappoint him?”

Her palms smooth over the hem of her sweater. “Look, just don’t tell people I’m with you, okay? Even if you’re joking.”

“Fine,” I say. “As long as you don’t go on a date with Cade Corwin.”

“Corbin.”

“Whatever.”

“Not a problem.” Waverly rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to date him, anyway.”

“I can’t imagine you’re missing out on much.” I grab the collar of my polo and pop it up, flashing a goofy grin like Cade’s.

She cracks a smile and somehow we’re just now realizing the halls have emptied around us. Her hand clasps over her mouth. “Jensen, we’re going to be late for the Faith-Building workshop.”

“Oh, no. Whatever will we do?” I find the situation to be hilarious, though judging by the sour look on her face we’re not on the same page. At all. She brushes past me in a panicked frenzy, only I grab her arm. “Where are you going?”

“Class.” She jerks her arm from my grasp.

“No, you’re not.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t be late. I can’t have any tardies on my record. They’ll make a note of it on my weekly report, and Bellamy already says everyone thinks I’m acting different and I’m still trying to prove to my Dad that—”

She yammers on, but I tune her out.

“We’re both adults here.” I clear my throat, interrupting her train of thought. “Let’s just sign ourselves out. They’ll only contact your parents if you’re, like, missing or a no-show. Trust me. I’ve spent my fair share of summers at Bible Camp. If we sign ourselves out, that takes care of any tardies or unexcused absences. This isn’t high school.”

She leans back against the wall, her head tilted, and then our eyes meet. “Fine.”

That was easy.

With determined steps, we rush to the main office and sign ourselves out. Minutes later we’re just a couple of free birds, heading down student-free halls toward the front doors where adventure begins the second we peel out of the parking lot.

She climbs into my truck, slinging her bag between us. “So what now? Where are we going?”

“I hadn’t thought that far.”

“Seriously?”

“You were worried about getting a tardy,” I say, turning the ignition. “Now you don’t get a tardy and you get out of camp for a few hours so you can be bad with me.”

“Just don’t get me into too much trouble today. Let’s fly low on the radar.”

“So you barged into my room last week and practically demanded that I fuck you, and now you don’t want to get into trouble?” Good to know even losing her virginity hasn’t changed the core of Waverly Miller. She’s still jam-packed with indecisive confusion. “You had a problem. I solved it. You really think I’d get you out of trouble just to get you into more trouble?”

“All I said was don’t get me in too much trouble today.” She buckles up, crossing her legs and staring straight ahead. “I’m trusting you with my future. I still think I can convince my dad to let me go to college. I’m trying to walk a very thin, narrow line here. That’s the only reason I let you talk me into signing out.”

“You trust me?”

“You’re good at this being bad stuff. You know what you’re doing.”

I pull out of the parking lot and come to a stop at the corner. “You’re okay with last week, right? We never had a chance to talk about it. You spent all weekend doing chores or some shit like that. I thought you were avoiding me.”

“How many times are you going to ask me?” she huffs. “I’m totally fine.”

My foot presses into the gas. “Just making sure.”

Waverly stares out the window, tracing her finger across a smudge on the glass. “So, where are we going?”

“Probably shouldn’t stick around town if you’re not wanting to be seen.” I roll down my window, letting the fresh air hit my face. Freedom is skipping some bullshit camp with a pretty girl by your side and no particular destination in mind.

“The next town over,” she says. “Hilldale. They have antique shops and little cafés.”

My lip curls up on one side. “I’m sorry, Waverly, but I am not going antiquing with you. I’m not your boyfriend, remember? You made that pretty clear just a little while ago.”

“So if you were my boyfriend, you would go antiquing with me?”

“Probably. But you’d have to blow me first.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“That’s how relationships work, just so you know. You do shit you don’t want to do and sometimes you have to bribe each other with sexual favors.” She smacks me hard across the arm, though it doesn’t much hurt. “And why the fuck does an eighteen-year-old want to go antiquing, anyway?”

We pull out onto the main road that veins through town east and west.

Waverly slinks a shoulder up to her ear. “I don’t know. It’s something to do.”

“You need to grow your imagination, then. I can think of a million other things to do that are better than antiquing.” I switch the radio on to a classic rock station. “What do you like to do in your free time?”

“Never had a whole lot of it. Most of my time is spent at home. Housework. Chores. I read books. That’s about it.”

“You’re killing me here. You know that, right?” I merge onto the interstate, rolling up my window. “Is there a theme park around here? A mall? Anything?” A big green sign a quarter mile down the road tells us we’re just fifteen miles away from the birthplace and lifelong home of Mormon poetess Elizabeth Wagner. “You know her?”

“I know of her, yes,” she says.

“You want to go see where she was born? It’s not much better than antiquing, but I get the feeling you don’t get out much, so I’m willing to go there, and you don’t even have to blow me.”

“I wouldn’t have blown you anyway, but yes, we can go there.” There’s a hint of a smile in her voice, and I think she’s kind of excited.

We follow the signs to a sleepy little town called Glen Oak that seems to encircle a small lake. About a mile down the road, just past a handful of boat ramps, is an old house stitched together with mudded timber. A white sign out front says: HOME OF ELIZABETH WAGNER.

“Found it.” I shut off the ignition and climb out.

Waverly runs to the sign, reading the scheduled tours. “Aw, they don’t start tours until four.”

A red sedan is parked outside the house. “Someone’s here. Won’t hurt to ask.”

I jog up to the front door and knock before checking the handle. The house is unlocked, so I motion for her to follow me.

“What are you doing?” She whispers her words and crouches down, like we’re a couple of burglars.

“Hello? Anyone here?” I call out. The house is small, a sparsely decorated living room to the right and an old timey kitchen to the left. A set of stairs is before us, and the sound of footsteps above tells us the owner of the red car is definitely here. “Hello?”

The footsteps move quicker until we see the feet of a woman at the top of the stairs. She climbs down gingerly, the stairs popping and cracking with each careful movement.

“We’re closed.” Her voice is gruff and old, tinted with small town fatigue.

“I know, but we’re just passing through, and my girlfriend here is a huge fan of Elizabeth Wagner’s work. It would mean the world to her if you—”

“Twenty minutes,” she says. “And don’t tell anybody. I’m just the cleaning lady.”

Waverly’s mouth parts into a smile a mile wide and she gives my arm a squeeze.

“See?” I say. “Ask for what you want and you just might get it.”

She scampers off toward the living room, oohing and ahhing over display cases filled with handwritten notes and letters by the poetess. A desk with Elizabeth’s actual feather quill and inkpot sits behind velvet ropes.

“This was her desk,” Waverly says. “Her actual desk. Where she wrote. She sat here.”

You’d think we were touring Graceland, or something. “Yeah. Very cool.”

She doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm, so I stand aside and watch her fawn over every square inch of this humble dwelling.

“She had twelve children,” Waverly said. “Can you imagine?”

“How many sister wives?” I tease.

“Several. Eight, I think? She was the first, though.”

I follow her into the kitchen, where she ogles teacups Elizabeth Wagner once drank from as well as a pie pan she used to bake her famous boysenberry pies with.

The cleaning lady tromps down the stairs, a plastic caddy and feather duster in her hands. “I’m done upstairs. As soon as I finish down here, I have to lock up. Consider this your ten-minute warning.”

We head up, the staircase barely two feet wide and steeper than shit. The upstairs contains a few small bedrooms—one appearing to be a master bedroom and the others filled with makeshift bunk beds and covered in ancient quilts.

“This is where she slept,” Waverly sighs, running her palm against the multi-colored fabric that covers a bed.

“Lay on it.” I shrug. “No one will know but you and me.”

She swats at me. “You’re a bad influence, you know that?”

“Do it, Waverly. I’m sure if Elizabeth were here, she’d be more than happy to entertain you in her home.”

Waverly laughs. “I highly doubt that. She allegedly wasn’t the nicest person, but man, could she string together some beautiful sentences.” She leans over the bed, inspecting every square inch of the quilt as if she’s fascinated. “I bet she sewed this herself. She was an avid quilt-maker. Best in the county.”

I take the opportunity to gently shove Waverly, forcing her on the bed. “Oops.”

She whips around. “Jensen!”

I fall into the bed, taking the spot next to her. “Oh, my goodness. I think I tripped over the chamber pot.”

I expect her to scramble up off the bed and chide me, but she doesn’t. She lays there, parallel to me, her head resting on her hand. A slow grin captures her face and her hair falls over her left eye. “You’re terrible.”

“You’re easily persuaded.”

“You’re a smooth-talking salesman.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of things I can’t talk you into doing.” I lean back on the bed, tucking my hands behind my head and staring up at the wooden ceiling. God, growing up in the 1800s would’ve been mind-numbingly dull.

“You really think I’m that uptight still?”

“You are that uptight. Still.”

“I’m trying not to be,” she says, her hand across her chest. “I’ve gotten better. Uptight Waverly wouldn’t have snuck out to go to a concert with you. Uptight Waverly wouldn’t have signed herself out of Camp Zion.”

I love how we’re just lying in Elizabeth Wagner’s bed, in her museum, yakking away like it’s the most natural thing on earth. But that’s the beauty of being with Waverly—she tends to make everything else irrelevant.

I won’t tell her that, though. I won’t tell her how much I enjoy her company and the distraction she provides. I sure as fuck won’t tell her I actually might miss her come August.

“Fine. You’re making strides. I’ll give you that.” I trace my finger tip along her arm, connecting the freckles like a game of dot-to-dot. “So what kind of life does new-and-improved Waverly Miller want?”

“That I don’t know,” she says, pulling in a long sigh. “Just one of my own. One where I get to call the shots. That’s all I want.”

“Simple enough.”

“What about you?”

I think about the long answer, but I opt to give her the short one. “Exact same.”

Right now would be a perfect time to kiss her—at least, that’s what my body is telling me. I consider it, mulling it over like I’ve got all the time in the world. But I don’t want to give her the wrong idea. I’m not dating her, and this sure as hell isn’t romantic—at least not to me.

But then something washes over me, an impulse heightened by my racing heart or the way she toys with the gold locket around her neck as she bites her bottom lip.

And so I kiss her.

I press my lips against hers, hard, forcing her lips apart so our tongues can meet. My cock hardens, responding to her sweet taste.

She pulls away, pressing her hand into my chest. “Hey, what’d you do that for?”

“Now you can say you kissed someone in the same bed where Elizabeth Wagner used to kiss her husband.” I ready myself for a slap that never comes, which is a shame, because I kind of deserve it.

“All right, you two, time to go,” the cleaning lady calls up from the bottom of the stairs. “Gotta lock up. Let’s go, let’s go.”

It’s for the best, because the second she pushed me away, something deep inside me wanted more. I don’t know that I could’ve stopped otherwise.

CHAPTER 24

WAVERLY

“I had fun today.” I climb out of Jensen’s truck just before three o’clock, before a mass amount of camp goers and carpool mini vans flood the parking lot.

After we left Elizabeth Wagner’s, we grabbed hot dogs, Cokes, and moon pies from a local gas station and had an impromptu picnic by the Glen Oak Lake. The remainder of the afternoon was spent driving up and down county roads, listening to music, and basking in the warmth of the midday sun like we were the only two people on earth.

Jensen gives a tight-lipped nod and salutes me. If he’s trying to be charming, it’s working.

“Guess I’ll see you at dinner.” His gaze lingers on me a bit too long until he shifts his truck into drive.

“Yeah, see you at home.” I step back, watching him pull away.

***

Dad wasn’t at breakfast that morning since he went into work early, thank goodness, but he never misses dinner. Bellamy’s words echo in my head as we gather that evening. I still can’t bring myself to look my father in his eyes, partially because of his threat to marry me off, but mostly because I fear he’ll see it all over my face. He’ll see I’m no longer his chaste and true daughter, and then all chances I had to redeem myself as worthy of attending college will be rendered null and void.

It was for that reason I spent most of last weekend keeping busy with household duties. Every plant got watered. Every trash was emptied. Every weed was pulled. If my father saw me handling responsibilities and keeping busy, he wouldn’t have been able to suspect I’d just handed Jensen my virginity Friday night like it was nothing.

Jensen asks for the salt as soon as sides have been passed around. I hand it to him without saying a word, keeping my eyes averted. I don’t want to interact with him too much, not around my father.

“So, Bellamy tells us she’ll be traveling for work now,” Mom announces in such a way that I don’t think she’s pleased about it.

Bellamy lifts her water and takes a sip. “I’m getting a promotion.”

No one congratulates her. Those kinds of things aren’t celebrated in a home where women aren’t praised for having careers.

“I, too, will be doing a bit more traveling,” Dad interjects. “I’ll be on AUB business, meeting with various councilors and members of the ward.”

“You’ve been spending an awful lot of time lately on priesthood business,” Summer muses.

“I’m righting the ship.” I feel my father’s gaze upon me, weighing me down with unspoken connotations. “A season of change is upon us. It’s time to forge strong ties with the brethren so we can continue building our kingdom. There are certain resources that come along with fostering good relations with our local wards and councils. It’s a give and take relationship, one built on trust and values, one that requires sacrifice.”

When he speaks that way, I know he’s been spending more time with Bruce Waterman and other council members. Heat and ice flood my veins, and my heart thuds with slow, heavy beats.

Kath listens intently as she cuts up the twins’ pot roast. She doesn’t question the cryptic-tone of his words. Neither does Summer.

“Care to elaborate?” Mom asks. It’s rare that one of the wives questions my father, but if anyone’s going to do it, it’s my mother.

“When the time is right, I’ll make my announcement.” He saws into his meat and forks a hunk into his mouth. If he’s trying to put the fear of God into me once again, it’s working.

We haven’t exchanged many words since our little altercation last week, but I’m bent on convincing him he was wrong about me. As much as I resent him right now, he’s still my ticket to college. I can’t get student loans to cover room and board without my parents filing a FAFSA, and he won’t do it if he doesn’t want me attending school.

“Sounds like a load of shit to me,” Jensen mutters under his breath, loud enough so only I can hear him.

I can’t eat. My appetite vanishes just like that. I force a few more bites down, just enough to ensure no one notices anything’s wrong, and then I excuse myself to begin kitchen clean up.

When my father retreats to his den after dinner and the kids scamper off to the family room, my mothers join me in the kitchen.

“You don’t think he’s talking about taking on a fourth wife, do you?” Kath asks Mom and Summer, keeping her voice low. “He wouldn’t do that without telling us, right?”

Summer grabs a dishrag. “Let’s put it this way: we didn’t know about you until the day before we met you, so…”

“Yeah, but that was a little different.” Kath blushes. I’ve always liked her, but I know she’s struggled with feeling accepted by Summer, who wasn’t too keen on being displaced out of the blue. She and Dad had been struggling to have a fourth child and nothing was working, and then Kath shows up, marries into the family, and pops out a set of twins her first try.

“Now, now, ladies.” Mom fills the sink with hot, soapy water, and I hand her a dirty casserole dish. “I’m sure Mark would consult with us this time, especially since there are logistical issues. The houses on either sides of us aren’t up for sale. Where would a fourth wife live? And can we afford a fourth wife?”

“Knowing Mark, he’s got everything figured out,” Kath says. “He’s a planner, our dear husband.”

They continue gabbing, speculating about the odds of Dad adding another wife, when all I really want to do is tell them they’re wasting their time. He was talking about me, his cryptic words all code for planning to marry me off.

I can’t stand another minute, and I need to get out of the hen house before I go insane. “I’ve got some homework to finish. Mind if I head up to my room for the night?”

“Go right on ahead,” Mom says. “We’re about done here.”

I check the calendar on my way out of the kitchen, the one that tells us where Dad is sleeping that night. Tonight is circled in green, which means he’ll be at Summer’s. Which is a relief, because I could use a talk with Jensen tonight.

I bide my time in my room until well past nine, when I know Mom and Bellamy have retired to their rooms for the night, then I slip into Jensen’s room. I don’t even knock. I figure if we’ve had sex, we’re past the courtesy of knocking.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he says, glancing up from his sketchpad. He’s seated with his back against his headboard.

I close the door behind me.

“Before you go feeling all special, I was awake and bored,” I lie. “What are you drawing?”

He flips his sketchpad around to show me a drawing of his feet.

“You’re drawing your feet?” I choke on my laughter. “I was expecting a beautiful landscape, or like a motorcycle, or something. Not feet.”

“I like drawing the human body.” He flips it toward him, shading the white with his pencil. “Sometimes you have to be your own live model.”

I climb onto the foot of his bed, sitting cross-legged and pulling up at the threads of his quilt.

“You should let me draw you,” he says, setting his paper aside. There’s a hint of mischief in his dark eyes. “Like… all of you.”

I sprawl across his bed, resting my hands on my bent elbow. “Like this?”

“No. All of you.”

“Nude?”

“Yes, Waverly. Nude. Your body’s perfect. I should know. I had the pleasure of fucking it the other night.”

My cheeks flush. It’s easy to remember how good he made me feel that night, but I seem to forget my body returned the favor.

“I don’t know. It’s going to feel weird with you just staring at me, staring at my naked body. Being all exposed like that.”

Jensen pops up and shuts off his bedroom light, returning to click on the small lamp on his bedside table. The room has just enough light for him to draw.

“And if it makes you feel better,” he says, handing me a throw blanket, “you can strategically drape this anywhere you want. I’m not drawing porn.”

I flash a half-grin, marveling at the way he knows exactly how to put me at ease.

“No one will ever see it,” he promises. “My eyes only.”

I fall back on the bed and cover my eyes with my forearm. “Ugh. I don’t know.”

The bed creaks and shifts, like he’s coming closer to me. His deliciously masculine scent fills my lungs and the space around me is warmer. “We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. But either way, I want to draw your beautiful, naked body, and you’re going to let me.”

I pull my arm from my face. “You’re so sure of yourself all the time. Doesn’t it get exhausting being so cocky?”

“I know what I am. I own it. And people respect me for it.” He climbs off the bed. “Now, take off your fucking clothes before I rip them off you.”

My body tingles the way it does just before I know I’m about to do something delightfully sinful.

Some might argue that submission is in my DNA. I’d say it’s not submitting when you want it just as bad.

I peel my clothes off article by article, teasing him, and he watches, feasting on me with his dark eyes. I glide naked across his bed, every soft fiber of the quilt brushing my sensitive skin and setting my nerves on high alert. There’s a warmth between my thighs, an arousal brewing.

Jensen worships me with his generous gaze, the rest of his face obstructed by his sketchpad. He gets to work immediately, starting with broad strokes and then filling them in as he goes along.

He pauses, sticking his pencil between his teeth and biting down before getting back to work. “Goddamn, Waverly, you’re sexy as fuck.”

I fight a smile and bury my face in my arm for a moment before peering over it once again.

“You’re going to have to stop doing that,” he says.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like that, like you’re trying to seduce me.”

“Maybe I am.”

“What would you know about seduction?” he teases. “You’re fresh off the boat, angel face. You’ve had sex all of one time.”

I roll to my side, exposing my breasts, and the cool air of his room awakens my nipples. I run my hand along them, tickling my palm. My legs draw up, bending at the knees.

“There are things you haven’t even experienced yet,” he says, his brows arched.

“I’m not going to blow you,” I proclaim, staring up at the ceiling.

He huffs. “Well, then, you’re missing out, because blow jobs can be just as satisfying for a woman as they are for a man, especially when I’m devouring your pussy at the same time.”

“I’m sorry if the idea of sucking on a penis doesn’t sound appealing to me.” My legs squeeze together at the knees, imagining the way his tongue could easily command my body.

“Well, when you put it that way…” He laughs. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it, sweetheart.”

“Not interested. Sorry.” He’s not coercing me into being his little sex toy tonight. No free blow jobs for him.

“You’re challenging me. And now I have no other choice but to prove you wrong,” he says. His weight shifts off the bed, but by the time I look up to see where he’s gone, he’s lowered himself to his knees, his hands reaching between my thighs to spread my legs apart.

“What are you doing?” I try to squeeze my knees together, but he’s stronger than me.

His fingers find my folds, separating them, massaging my slit and circling around my sensitive nub. “Fuck. You’re wet as hell. You were wet before I even touched you.”

Before I have a chance to defend myself, a wet and warm sensation silences my thoughts. When I glance down, Jensen’s head is between my thighs. He takes long strokes with his tongue before circling and exploring every part of me in the most intimate way imaginable.

“Relax,” he whispers between licks. My legs fall wider, obeying his command. I’m submitting to him because this is the greatest feeling in the entire world. I’m at his mercy. I’ll do anything he says, as long as he doesn’t stop.

My breath quickens, my heart pounding with every lick, suck, and twirl. He’s a magician. My sex is pulsing and pounding as I try to fight off mini waves of orgasms that threaten to shorten this supernatural experience. I can’t come yet. I’m not ready. I won’t let myself.

Jensen’s hand inches up past my belly until he takes a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, twisting just enough to provide a bit of a distraction. And then his warmth leaves me. No more tongue.

“Why’d you stop?” I pant.

He unzips his jeans, pulling everything off and then climbing onto the bed. Jensen grabs my hips and pulls them toward him. “Sit on my face, but face that way.” He points to the foot of the bed, so I straddle him backwards and he lowers me to his mouth.

I’m in control now, bucking my hips against his mouth as his hands grip the flesh of my hips. I’m on my knees, desperate for something to cling onto, to ground me.

I bend forward, coming face to face with his throbbing erection. In a hazy fit of blinding lust, I instinctively grab the base of it, bringing the tip of it to my lips. It’s warm and soft against my mouth. My lips part, my tongue extending to taste the tiny drop of pre-cum that rests on top of his swollen member. It’s slightly sweet, mostly salty, and not nearly as disgusting as I expected.

I swallow the tiny drop and bask in the naughty feeling it gives me. My tongue strokes the length of him from base to tip and back before circling his head. He moans deep against my sex when I take him into my mouth. He’s velvet and heat, deliciously forbidden, and I can’t quite fit him all.

His tongue continues lapping my arousal, hungrier and needier with each passing minute. My breasts graze his lower abs as I continue licking and sucking him. This is like sex, but softer, gentler, and even more sensual.

Feeling his tongue invading my sex as his erection fills my mouth is strangely intense. Jensen was right. Again.

“I’m gonna come.” He breathes his words hot onto my sensitive skin moments later, his hardness swelling and pumping into my mouth. His fingers dig into me, threatening to leave marks. A few long spurts and he’s dripping down the back of my throat.

I rise up to my knees, his mouth still commanding my hips. I grab my breasts as I rock against him.

Closer…

Until I hit the edge I’d been fighting all along.

Intensity rains down on me in uncontrollable spasms. Jensen grips me, refusing to let me leave his tongue until he’s drained every last ounce of orgasm from my spent body.