That I didn’t return to finish what we started on the floor of his home two long years ago.
But I can no longer lie to myself as his long fingers tangle in my hair and hold me a willing prisoner for the ransacking of my mouth with his tongue, lips, and teeth.
Thisisn’t the sole reason. But it’s part of it.
Asais part of it.
With a groan, he presses stinging, hot kisses to my cheek, temple, jaw. Then, before I can chase those beautiful lips, he’s on his feet again and he doesn’t wait for my fumbling attempts this time. He attacks his own jeans, ripping the button up and jerking the zipper down. But as he thrusts his hand inside the opening, I jerk out of the erotic stupor he’s thrown me in and bat his hands away. Or rather, he allows me to.
An urgency fueled by too many nights filled with sweaty, dark dreams drives me, and I pull the band of his black boxer briefs back with one hand and dip inside with the other. I don’t hesitate. Hesitation is for those who don’t have a ticking clock hanging over their heads. For those who have never known what it is to have their heart’s desire snatched from them in a blink of an eye. So no, I close my fist around him as if this is my hundredth time touching him, squeezing him, stroking him, not my first.
And maybe it is. If I count my dreams.
My lids lower and I luxuriate in sensation. In the feeling of hot satin over hard steel. Of strength and vulnerability in my hand. At the musky, delicious sandalwood-and-earth scent that’s more condensed, headier here. Unable to prevent myself—and because I can—I lean forward, pressing my nose to the black cotton of the boxer briefs, inhaling. But it’s not enough. I tug the underwear down, and my pussy contracts at the sight of my smaller hand curled around his thick, long cock. The Batmobile with Gotham’s favorite vigilante could come tearing right through my living room and the commotion couldn’t drag my enthralled attention away from my fist sliding up, up, up his length, closing over the dark-red, plum-shaped head. Couldn’t rival how bruised and angry that wide cap appears as a bead of pre-cum glistens at the slit, lubricating my palm for the glide back down.
Inhaling that alluring male fragrance isn’t enough. Not with my tongue heavy in my mouth and my breath breaking on my parted lips like gasped prayers.
I need to taste him.
Angling him toward me, I sink my head over his cock, taking him into my mouth. Swallowing him as deep as I’m able.
“Fuck, India,” he snaps, his hands gripping the sides of my head. His snarl vibrates in the air above me as his cock bumps the back of my throat. “Baby girl, hold the fuck up.”
But I can’t. It’s almost as if I’m in a trance, drowning in lust, in him. I draw back, his girth sliding over my tongue. My lips close over the head and I give it a strong, healthy suck, laving the tip, teasing the slit. The salty musk has me humming and instantly addictive, and I return for more. Always more. That’s what got me on my knees in the first place. The insatiable quest for more. Tilting my head forward, I tongue the underside of the flared cap, and his hold on my head tightens, sending prickles of almost pain scattering across my scalp.
“Goddammit, India.” The warning is evident in his lust-thickened voice.
“Don’t stop me,” I murmur, vaguely surprised by the rasp in my own tone. I almost don’t recognize it, having never heard it before. Drunk. I sound damn near drunk, and it’s on need, on Asa. Brushing a kiss over his damp skin, I dip my head and drag my tongue up his length. “Let me have this. Have you.”
“Then take it. Stop teasing and take it. Fuck this dick like you mean it.” He sounds mean and something else. Almost… desperate. And I understand that. I feel that.
Once more, my lips part and I suck, lick, yes, fuck his cock. Like I mean it. It’s messy. It’s wild. I put all of me to work jacking him off. My head, mouth, tongue, hands. If I could wrap my whole damn body around his dick, I would. And his growls, moans, and filthy words of praise encourage me to take more, go farther. When the tip bumps the back of my throat again, I breathe deep through my nose, then exhale, allowing him to enter. And when his big body tenses, each furious curse is my reward.
So I do it again.
And again.
And again.
He cups my throat even as the other hand remains in my hair, steadying me, holding me in place as he takes over. I drop my hands and cradle his bare hips as they piston back and forth, his cock gliding over my tongue, hitting my throat and breaching it with every thrust.
“So good, baby girl,” he grunts, his thumb stroking the front of my neck. “So fucking good.” His nostrils flare and for a moment, his grip tautens on both my neck and hair. “I’m coming. Let me know if I need to pull back. Now. Otherwise, I’m filling you up.”
I answer by shifting my hands to his ass and digging my fingernails into the dense muscle.
With a groan, he snaps his hips forward, burying his cock in my mouth. Again and again. And then, on a muted roar, he’s pumping his cum into my mouth, down my throat. I swallow, greedily accepting all he’s giving me. And when he shudders against me, I lick and suck his slightly softening cock, coaxing for a little more.
“Fuck,” he rasps. “Fuck.”
He cradles my face between his big palms, his breath harsh puffs that serrate the air. For long moments, his eyes close and only his chest rises and falls. When his lashes lift several seconds later, the need in them hasn’t dimmed. If anything, it’s intensified. And it leaves me lightheaded. Excitement and anxiety flutter beneath my navel.
“Where’s your bedroom?” he whispers.
“Down the hall.” I jerk my head in the direction of the shadowed corridor, my voice just as hushed.
He curves his hands beneath my arms, gently but firmly pulling me to my feet—then he sweeps me off my feet. Winding my arms around his neck, I brush my lips over the base of his neck, flicking his inked skin with my tongue, teasing his racing pulse. And taking more than a little pleasure than I’m the cause of that rapid pace.
He doesn’t ask for any more help in seeking out my bedroom. With unerring accuracy, he locates the darkened room and enters, heading straight for the tidily made bed. Asa settles me on the mattress and rounds the side of it to switch on the lamp. His gaze surveys the large room with its cedar armoire, the small sitting area with the armchair, ottoman, the tall, thrift-store-find cheval mirror in the far corner, and finally the bedside tables, before returning to the huge, hand-carved sleigh bed. And me.