A Match Made in Vegas Read Online Crystal Kaswell

Categories Genre: Alpha Male Tags Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement1

Advertisement2

"Or you'll punish me?"

"Yes." He breathes an entire promise into the single word.

It's exactly what I need to fall further into this. I sit back on my heels.

He takes my hand and pulls me up, then over his lap, in one swift motion.

I land on the seat, my face and chest falling off his thighs, my stomach pressed against his lap, my ass in the air.

He's still hard.

And I want that.

But I want this. I want all of it.

Jackson rolls my dress over my ass. He pushes my panties to my knees. He raises his hand. "You had three last time. Let's go for four this time."

A groan falls from my lips.

"You remember the guidelines?"

Red to stop. Yellow to slow down. And green to keep going. A stop-light. Simple. "Yes."

"Where are you now?" He's that other person now, the one who's gentle and caring, who makes sure I'm okay with the scenario.

"Green."

"Good." With that one word, he shifts again back to the stern, in-control man.

My inhibitions fall away. My body relaxes.

I sink into his legs, into this game we're playing.

Jackson leaves me waiting for a moment. He builds the anticipation. Then he brings his hand down on my ass. Harder than Mercy did, but not hard enough to hurt. Only hard enough to sting.

Hard enough, I feel his power.

His ability to harm me.

My trust he won't.

Not in ways I didn't specifically request.

There's something about the trust, the care, the force—

It sets me on fire.

"One." He does it again.

My body whines again.

"Two." Again. A little harder.

Hard enough, it hurts, but that hurt feels good. Way too good.

"Three." He presses his palm into my lower back, so I can feel his cock against my flesh. No. All that fabric is in the way. His slacks. And whatever he wears under them.

He raises his hand, and he spanks me again.

The same force, I think, but I feel more of it, somehow. I don't just feel the sting on my flesh. I feel it in my heart and soul too.

That's cheesy and silly and without any medical merit, but I don't care.

I'm in a trance, and I want to stay there forever.

"What do you want, baby?" he purrs.

"You."

"How?"

I don't hesitate or stutter. I say exactly what I want. "In my mouth."

"Good girl." The words fall off his lips with practice, but there's nothing put-on about it. He's here, in the moment, with me. "On your knees."

This time, I do as he asks. I slip off him and fall onto the floor of the car.

"Unzip me." He spreads his legs to give me room.

I undo the button of his slacks. The zipper.

His cock springs free from the silky fabric of his boxers. My fingers brush his flesh.

"Show me," he demands.

I fall into the spell. I wrap my hand around him and bring my lip to his tip. One soft brush to taste him, then I wrap my lips around him.

I don't want to tease.

I want to taste him.

I want to feel him come.

I take him deeper. I press my tongue against his base.

I pull back and do it again.

One of his hands goes to the back of my head. The other goes to my breast. He guides me as he toys with me.

Gently, but with enough force I feel him there.

But I want more. The next time I take him, I suck a little harder.

His lips part with a groan, so I do it again.

Then one more time.

He feels so good in my mouth. The firm flesh. The soft skin. The sense I'm somehow in control and losing control at once.

Everything I need.

And all that desire in his eyes, his posture, his groans.

I take him again and again.

His groans run together.

Then he's there, groaning my name as he comes, pulsing against my lips, spilling inside my mouth.

Fast, yes.

But that only makes me feel sexier, more skilled, more in and out of control.

I wait until he's spilled every drop, then I pull back, and I swallow hard.

"Fuck." He looks down at me with an intoxicating mix of pride and need. "Bad girl." He says it with so much affection, I know he means it as a compliment. "I'm coming on your tits next time."

My cheeks flush. My chest too. "When is that?"

"Whenever I fucking decide."

Somehow, I know exactly what to say. "Or maybe whenever I decide."

He smiles, that same bad girl smile, this perfect mix of pride and affection and love of defiance and desire to control.

We stay there for a moment, in that perfect place, then the music changes, and I fix my dress, and he fixes his slacks, and we slip back into another mode.

Not the friends who dare each other.

Or the lovers who care for each other.

Something deeper, bigger, purer.

Something I can't explain.

He's the Jackson I know, but he's different in some fundamental way.


Advertisement3

Advertisement4