The panel shows the earth, split in two.
He swallows my shocked gasp with a deep kiss, covering my mouth and groaning when heat melts into a fevered need for more and he feels me arch under him, shuddering.
“Oh, God.”
He exhales something between a sigh and a “Yeah?” against my lips and strokes me gently again for several soft, slow kisses before he spanks me again three times, fast and sharp.
The next time his fingers circle gently across my clit, I’m crying out, filled with something warm and silver and it bursts out of me, sliding over my skin and filling my blood with smoke. He strokes me satisfyingly hard, eyes wide as he watches me come. When I close my eyes and melt into the mattress below me, he ducks, kissing my neck, hand trailing over to my thigh to spread me even wider.
“You liked that,” he says, lips finding my jaw. “I spanked your pussy and you liked it.”
I moan, wanting his mouth on mine, the odd reassurance of it.
“You’re filthy,” he praises, licking my lower lip. “You’re glorious.”
I sit up, pulling him between my legs and going to work on his belt, his button fly, shoving his pants down his hips with impatient hands. My mouth is watering and his hands brace on my shoulders, ready. His cock juts in front of me, thick to the point of excessive, and I feel the way his torso clenches when I pull his foreskin back, bend and lick around the crown, sucking.
I’ve only given a few blow jobs in my life and each time it was such a conscious effort filled with so much thought—
is it good,
oh, God, my jaw is sore,
will I have to swallow?
None of that is happening now: all I can think is how much more I want to take, how the skin is stretched so tight around him, how I can practically feel how it must be for him when I lick him wetly, suck at where he leaks, pull the entire head of his cock into my mouth and as far down as I can take it. My hands find his balls, feeling, knowing. This body is mine to know, mine to touch, and he helps me move, helps me find a rhythm and his hips shift with me, his voice encourages me with the broken sounds and tiny grunts and I love how hard he gets, harder, harder as I suck and he’s close, oh fuck, he’s so close already and I ache for it. I want him to come in me, on me, over me, and he’s there, thrusts wild, hands making fists in my hair, voice growing louder in warning, accent thick and garbled but I don’t want to stop, I want him like this: hips flexed as he’s coming in my throat, growling as I suck all the way through it. He presses his lips to my hair, groaning as the final spasms of his orgasm shake through him, and the feel of it is like a million tiny lightning bolts dancing across my scalp.
He stares down at me, catching his breath as I kiss up and down his cock.
I have never loved doing that before, but holy fuck, now I’m obsessed. I collapse back on the mattress, biting my lip through an enormous grin.
Oliver shifts forward, bending over me with two fists planted beside my hips. “You just sucked my soul out of me.”
I roll to the side, giggling and feeling pretty fucking proud of the head I just gave because just looking at him I can tell it was stellar. He kicks off his pants, rolls me back so he’s above me, and kisses my breasts, down my stomach . . . and in a haze I realize where he’s headed, what he’s going to do.
“No,” I whisper, quickly adding, “It’s okay.” I slide my fingers under his jaw, guide his face back up to mine.
He’s gone quiet. Oliver kisses me once but no more. He stares down at me, studying my face.
Something is wrapped around my heart, growing tighter the longer I look at him—the floppy brown hair and blue eyes still full of satisfaction, but now also mixed with something else, something knowing—and I have to close my eyes to ease the ache of it because it was all so perfect until I stopped him.
“Look at me.” He waits and then urges, “Lola.”
I open my eyes, focus on his mouth. The soft bottom lip, dark stubble shadowing his jaw.
“You don’t want me to kiss you here.” His fingers drift between my legs.
“I do. . . .”
“Then why did you stop me?”
“It’s . . .”
“It’s what?”
“It’s a thing.”
“ ‘A thing’?” He pulls back a little, a jerky movement that tells me he’s not sure he likes what I’m saying. “I don’t know what you mean.”
God, I am so bad at articulating this. “The whole backstory.”
“The what?”
Sighing, I throw an arm over my face and am grateful he doesn’t immediately pull it away. “You know. About learning from your roommates and her friends. How you became this oral sex legend. It just means you’ve done it with a lot of women.”
When I move my arm, I see that he looks briefly amused. “You just gave me the blow job of my life.”
“I’m as surprised as you are,” I tell him honestly. “You inspired me. I haven’t been taught.”
He sighs. “I was wondering if it bothered you, or if you were teasing me.”
I reach up, trace his mouth with my fingertip. “It doesn’t bother me or make me jealous. It makes me feel like I have to get it, if that makes sense. I don’t like oral sex. But with you, if I don’t come it’s because of me.” He starts to say something but I press my fingers to his mouth so I can finish my thought first: “I’m not very good at relaxing when guys are doing that to me. I never have been; my mind wanders and I start thinking of other things and . . . I realize that makes me weird, but there you go.”