Her hair tied back, she bent, fisting my cock in her hand. Her grip was perfect—confident and strong. She glanced up, wet her lips, and swallowed. I could have come right there, all over that perfectly smooth neck, and it would have been the best blow job I’d ever had.
It would be all over far too quickly if I watched right away, so I shifted so I was staring at the ceiling when I felt her tongue connect to the underside of my cock. It was like a starting pistol had been fired. I clenched my hands and tried to take a steadying breath as she licked long, steady strokes up to my crown. This was a marathon, not a sprint . . . I hoped.
As she took my tip in her mouth and started to suck, I had to focus on keeping my hips on the bed and not ramming deep into her throat. Then she pulled back, licking up one side then down the other. Every millimeter of skin she touched buzzed and intensified the growl underneath my skin. She circled my crown with her tongue, and I willed her to take me into her mouth, but she was making me wait. Paying me back. It was pure, delicious torture, and I was going to have to live with it.
Impossibly slowly, she took me deeper and deeper, tighter and tighter and tighter, and then she pulled back and used just a little teeth.
At that moment I would have signed over my entire fortune to her if she let me flip her over onto her back and fuck her mouth into the mattress. But I held still, paralyzed with need and lust until she groaned, and I couldn’t hold back anymore. Some women made noises when they gave blow jobs, and it always filled me with suspicion—was that what they thought men wanted? Had they seen that when watching porn or reading Cosmo? But with Stella, her sounds were so uninhibited, so real and needy, that there was no doubt she loved sucking my dick.
I’d never wanted a woman so much in my life.
“I have to come,” I announced.
“In my mouth?” she asked.
I didn’t have time for a discussion. I pulled her onto the bed and flipped her to her back. “Lie there.” I took my dick in my hands. I wanted to see her as I came. To watch every naked part of her. She brought one leg up as if to hide herself, and I shook my head and pulled her knee wide, opening her pussy and revealing her wetness.
Fuck, yes. My dick in her mouth had done that to her.
I pushed into my hand, once, twice, and when she lifted the back of her hand to her mouth, wiping herself clean of me, I erupted all over my stomach, her name booming through the room.
“You’re fucking amazing,” I said, collapsing back onto the bed.
“I barely touched you,” she replied, pressing her hot palm against my chest.
“And look what you did. I’m a fucking mess. Your body . . . Your . . . everything.”
I was skirting too close to saying something before I knew what it was I wanted to say. I had to reel in my confessions, how these feelings were pushing up and breaking the surface of my soul. I wanted to be a man Stella wanted, craved, and deserved.
Twenty-Eight
Stella
I should have been dreading a day trip with the people who’d hurt me most in the world, but with Beck by my side, I was actually looking forward to it. “Have you done many coach trips before?” I squeezed his hand as we strode across the courtyard toward the bus waiting to take us to Fort William.
“Do I look eighty to you?”
I squinted, trying to get a good look at him. “Maybe on a bad day,” I replied.
He glared at me.
“Oh right, you don’t have bad days. That’s what Tom Ford does for you. The rest of us put up with Zara and plenty of days looking like we haven’t slept in a week.”
“Zara or not, I’ve never seen you looking anything other than fucking phenomenal.”
My stomach dived to my knees. There was no one to overhear us, no need to pretend, yet the things Beck said when we were in public or private . . . He was nicer to me, more complimentary than Matt had ever been.
“The Scottish weather must be getting to you,” I replied. Beck was the kind of guy who could get up at five in the morning and scrape his hands through his hair and be catwalk ready. Most of us weren’t so lucky.
Raised voices by the door to the coach caught my attention and a man with a clipboard and hair as orange as a traffic cone smiled at Karen through gritted teeth.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” the driver said. “The booking is on the system for forty-four.”
“We made it for forty-eight. There are still four more passengers than seats available.”
“We could drive,” Beck told Karen. “That way I can subject Stella to easy listening music.”
“You do not like easy listening,” I said, pulling on his arm.