4
Goldie
When I look down into his face, I blush at the sight of my juices smearing his lips and chin.
Brock makes no move to wipe it off. Instead, his feverish eyes latch onto mine.
“Your bedroom,” he growls. “Tell me where it is.”
I’m still dazed from the intense climax, and I wave a shaky hand above my head. “Upstairs. Second door on the left.”
Before the words are fully out, he’s scooping me up and pounding up the stairs. God, he carries me as if I weigh nothing, locates my bedroom and just like the front door, he kicks the door shut with his foot.
I try not to think of how my room looks with suitcases open and clothing discarded everywhere. I was shattered after my long plane ride and I’m yet to unpack.
Doesn’t seem like Brock gives a crap though.
His main focus is the queen-sized bed that still holds early remnants of my pink and purple phase.
I lost interest in a lot of things after my parents’ bitter divorce, including the girly things I once used to love decking out my room in. A divorce battle where I was caught in the middle and yet forgotten, an overlooked chess piece they moved around just to frustrate and get one better over the other.
In the end, when they tired of the game, Mom walked away without a backward glance, promptly marrying her business partner less than three months later. While Dad pushed his every crumb of attention into his career.
I happily push the unwanted memories away as Brock tosses me onto the bed, his nostrils flaring as he watches my tits bounce.
For several long seconds, he braces his body over mine, his eyes devouring every inch of my body.
Then he swallows.
“Hands under the pillow, honey. I can hold you down if you need it, but that’ll just occupy my hands. And I need them free to do this.”
I gasp as one hand boldly slides between my folds and his other molds my breast. His squeezes the peak between his thumb and forefinger, then teases it mercilessly with his tongue.
Need and pleasure spiral through me, hot and acute and mind-blowing enough to make me squeal.
So soon after my orgasm, I feel as if my skin is being turned inside out. “Please. Oh God, it’s too much!” I yelp weakly, because I don’t really want him to stop.
He doesn’t. Brock just grunts and keeps going, petting my center with firm but lazy strokes until the electricity in my belly ignites again.
“There it is. You’re ready for more, aren’t you? This greedy little slit needs more attention?” His voice is thick with satisfaction and arousal as he continues to pet me, his eyes rapt on my face, eating up every twitch and squirm.
This time he takes me to the edge, then retreats. Repeatedly.
Until I’m clawing at him. Begging for the very thing I foolishly tried to refuse minutes ago.
And those eyes, they chase after my every expression, as if he wants to capture and hoard them.
“Shall I let you in on a secret?” he asks, his voice thick with every dirty thing he intends to do to me.
I jog my head up and down, frantic for him not to stop. “Uh huh.”
“I haven’t done this in a while. But more importantly, I’ve never had a honey as sweet or as beautiful as you. Ever.” His voice is rough gravel and he falls onto his elbows and flicks his tongue over my other nipple. Then he groans. “And you are the fucking sweetest thing, aren’t you? So ripe and ready for me?”
“Yes!” Jesus, how has he turned me inside out so quickly again?
It’s like he’s discovered a secret switch inside me, flipping it on at will. A switch I’ve been secretly yearning for someone to find for the last year.
Part of my plans for my gap year was to punch my V-card. But none of the guys I met overseas did it for me. None have come even a fraction close to evoking the insane sensations I’m feeling now.