Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
“Well, I already am,” I confess.
“Show me how crazy,” he demands.
“I will.” I grab his hand to push his palm against the outline of my aching cock.
“Yes,” he growls, sounding drunk on lust.
So am I. My head is a haze; my reason is shot. I move his hand against my hard-on and take staggered breath after staggered breath as he strokes me.
I’ve missed this so fucking much. Missed him.
I glance at the city spread out in front of me. At all of New York looking at me. Owen’s warning words flash in my brain. Someone could see you. Someone could have a camera.
A spark races through me.
I want all of New York to watch Rafe get on his knees and suck me off. I want those people in the building across the street to stare at me, unable to stop watching the dirty show unfolding on the balcony.
I want to be seen.
I undo the belt on my slacks, then the button, then the zipper. Rafe goes wild. He shoves a hand inside my boxer briefs and grips my cock. I groan. At last. At long fucking last.
He strokes me, and I am fucking his fist already.
“Need this,” I rasp. “Need to come.”
I push on his shoulder, guiding him to the floor. But Rafe sets a hand on my chest and wheels around so his back is against the hotel wall. He’s looking out at New York night now. No one in the ballroom can see us.
He grabs my chin. “That’s not how we’re doing it,” he says, intense and commanding. “Get down on your knees and suck me off.”
Yes.
I want that more than I want a blow job. I drop to the ground, unzip his pants, then take his thick cock in my mouth. I don’t tease him. I don’t flick my tongue against the head. I draw him in deep, all the way to the back of my throat. I inhale his cock, wrapping my lips tight around his length. Immediately, he’s fucking my face. I gag, and he whispers in a mean voice, “Take it.”
And I take, sucking as he pummels the back of my throat. Curling a hand around the back of my head, he rasps, “Give me your palm.”
I lift my hand. He spits in it. “Stroke your cock,” he demands. “I’m going to watch you get off while you get me off.”
Oh, hell yes. My dick is already leaking.
I grip myself, using his saliva and my own arousal to slick up my cock. As he fucks my mouth, I fuck my fist. He growls and drives into my mouth without mercy. Saliva runs down my chin. I nearly choke. All he does is grunt out a quick, “You okay?”
I nod, and I stroke, and I suck. My dick throbs. My balls tighten. My thighs shake. My fist flies faster and faster as my orgasm marches through me and then ignites all my senses. I spill all over my hand as Rafe’s salty, musky taste floods my throat. I drink him down, and then he slides out of my mouth. He drops to his knees and gently, but purposefully takes my hand from my dick, bringing it to his mouth. Then, with his eyes locked on mine, he licks my climax off my palm and from between my fingers, murmuring as he goes.
I shudder at the sheer eroticism of it and the tender, possessive care he’s taking with me.
When he’s thoroughly licked away the evidence of our balcony tryst, he brings his mouth to mine and kisses me so softly, so gently, that I could dissolve into his arms.
We sigh into each other’s mouths, tasting our orgasms on each other. Tasting our longing.
Finally, he presses his forehead to mine and says, “Please come back to my room with me. Spend the night. I miss you so fucking much.”
I want that more than anything. But his Bespoke deal isn’t done. He’s still not available.
And I don’t want only one night.
I stand and tuck my dick back into my boxer briefs, then I zip and button my pants as Rafe gets to his feet as well.
At last, I answer him, the words ripping me apart. “There’s nothing in the world I want more than to go back to your place. But I made you a promise in San Francisco that I wouldn’t get in the way of your work. And I care about you too much to go back on it. Look me up when your deal is done, and if I’m still single, I’ll let you know.”
And then I walk away from the man I’m in love with.
Damn him.
45
THE MAN ON HIS KNEES
Gunnar
Blow jobs end when someone comes, but photos last forever.
The next morning, the picture is everywhere. It winks up at me from my phone as the town car whisks me from my hotel to the private airport. It flies past me on my social media feed. It flashes at me on Instagram.