What does that mean?
My tongue darts out and swipes across my bottom lip. Marcus follows the motion greedily, and his hold morphs into ironclad shackles before he releases me. In the background, I register that the volume of the music has lowered, which is why I can hear his next words.
"Give me your worst." The dare is out in the open. He thinks he can dominate me. Maybe he can. Or perhaps I want him to? But first…
Need pools in my core, soaking my panties to an embarrassing level. I've never been a girl who has particularly enjoyed giving blow jobs. I've done it, sure, but most of the time, it was to reciprocate. Marcus, though…
My fingers curl into the material of his briefs, slowly tugging on the barrier and exposing Marcus's very. Hard. Length.
Fuck, this is never going to fit.
His hands land on my shoulders, but I can't avert my eyes from his cock.
It's the champagne.
The tips of his fingers glide across my collarbone and over my neck. I have no doubt he can feel the thudding of my pulse against his touch. He continues his pursuit until his palms settle on either side of my face, tilting my head up slightly. My attention shifts to his face, and he studies me.
Marcus has been challenging me every step of the way since that night in the great room—the night I fell back into a habit I didn't know I still needed until my past came rushing back in.
We don't speak. Neither of us makes any indication to stop where this is headed. Does he want me to take charge? He said to give him my worst. What is my worst?
"Stop overthinking, Den." His words are spoken so softly. If we hadn't been between two songs, I would've missed him using the name my friends have for me. My eyes widen. There is an itch in the back of my head. He also called me Den when he got me away from Collin.
His thumb and forefinger travel to my chin in a featherlight caress. The calluses on them send waves of goose bumps down my neck and spine. He strokes up and down until he trails a burning path to my mouth. My eyelids flutter closed, and my lips part. Marcus pushes his finger inside, and my tongue swirls around it.
Letting go of his briefs, I circle my fingers around his dick. Hiding behind the security of my closed lids, I slowly pump him once, twice, while my other hand massages his balls. A hissing sound registers in my ears, and I pause.
"Don't stop," Marcus rasps.
Hearing the desire in his tone spurs me on. I let my legs fall open wider, and the scent of my arousal fills my nose.
He removes his finger from my mouth, smearing my saliva from my lips to my chin. He pinches the skin ever so slightly, a signal for me to look at him.
My body obeys of its own accord, every cell compliant to Marcus's whim.
I lift my gaze to his, the haze from the alcohol evaporating. A new form of intoxication takes over, and I rock my hips, my sensitive spot meeting the rough texture of his jeans where they hang low on his legs.
A moan escapes me, and a devilish grin forms on his gorgeous face. Marcus Baxter is sex in a male body. I've never denied how attractive he is. Our history simply never has allowed for the attraction to be anything more.
"Open."
He doesn't mean my legs. My fluttering heartbeat becomes painful with anticipation. I drop my hand from his balls and brace it against his thigh, the muscles coiling under my touch.God, I want this. Him.With the other still around his length, I lean in, never breaking our visual connection, and trail my tongue along the underside of his cock. When I reach the tip, I swirl it around once, licking the small drop off the head. Before he can give me another order, I do open.
I wrap my lips around him and take him until he hits the back of my throat.
"Oh, fuuuuck." His garbled expression of lust lightens the tightness in my chest.
I pump the part of his dick that's not in my mouth, pressing my tongue against the smooth skin, tasting him, sucking him. I want more. Need more.
His hips thrust forward, and my eyes water as he enters as far as physically possible.
"Touch yourself," he groans, finding his way into my hair with one of his hands and curling around the strands. The sting on my scalp is a brief distraction from the fullness in my mouth.
His gaze bores into mine. "I said,touch yourself."
What the fuck am I doing?enters my mind. I've never taken orders from a guy in bed—or on a couch. It is the one place in my life I've remained true to myself, even if I've lost myself in others. I'm not a vanilla kinda girl, but I also haven't experienced too much out of the box. I've never done it in public—until now. There was the occasional new position, but with there not being a deeper connection to my partners, there was never the trust for experimentation. Do I trust Marcus? I shouldn't. But I do. Why? Taking his orders (the last time and now) is not a sexual preference I saw myself enjoying. Craving. Submitting to someone. Maybe because I had to submit to my condition, to my family, keeping it hush-hush to not embarrass them. Following Marcus'sinstructions, I don't give up control, though. The knowledge that he would never force himself on me—should I choose to put a stop to it—is enough to allow myself to fall. And that's how it feels. Falling. Trusting. Being free. Taking the man, whom I shouldn't go near because of what I caused him and his family, would keep me in therapy for months—if I were still going.
Marcus withdraws from my mouth, fisting his cock in his free hand, forcing me to release him. He bends my head back so far my spine cracks. There is fire between his eyes. Not anger. Lust.