In an instant, I press my lips softly against hers. Chantelle nibbles on my bottom lip, as I work my pants off. A moan escapes my lips. My fingers are impatient, seeking out her heat to feel just how wet she is for me. She groans when my finger swipes up her cunt, and I salivate with the urge to taste her. I slide my finger inside her hole and pump in and out, using my thumb to circle her clit.
Mapping her body from her jaw to her chest, I push up the edge of her t-shirt to close my mouth over her nipple. Her hips buck as she fucks my hand, groaning louder with every tug and nibble. Releasing her nipple, I remove my fingers, and her body sags in disappointment. I rear back slightly and smile at the woman who wants to be mine.
I lean up, grabbing her by the jaw with the hand that was buried inside her, squeezing her cheeks until her mouth pops open. She gasps, her mouth opening wider, and I spit, saliva landing on the side of her lips. Tipping my head down, I run my tongue where my spit landed, gathering it and forcing my tongue into her mouth as she hungrily battles it with her own.
Pulling myself free, I kiss my way back down to her core. Her body is needy, her writing increasing under me as I continue my descent. I waste no time, closing my mouth around her clit, and she cries out.
Chantelle’s hands tangle themselves in my curls, pressing her hips up, fucking my face as I feast like a starved man.
“Fuck, Nate,” she groans, and I bite down on her clit causing her to scream out. “Omen,“ she corrects herself on a cry.
It does not take her long to come undone and slip my tongue inside her, drinking down her release. Chantelle does not waste a second to come down from her high, surprising me as she flips me onto my back and straddles my hips, then wriggles down until her mouth is level with my cock.
She frees my dick from my boxers, fully taking me in as if she is starved. I buck my hips against her mouth while she tightens her mouth around me and hums. I curse, throwing my head back at the sudden vibration going straight to my balls.
“God damn,” I hiss.
Grabbing my balls, she caresses them, continuing to swallow me as deep as possible. My body tenses, my orgasm building with each suck and the pressure when my head meets the back of her throat. She must have felt my body tense, because she releases my cock from her perfect mouth and traces her fingers down my stomach, holding eye contact, while my frustration grows from the denied orgasm.
“Not yet.”
Chantelle flicks an eyebrow at me, and I pull her up my body by her hair, forcing her lips onto mine.
Her hands roam my body, as if she is trying to remember every inch of me, then she smiles against my lips before taking my cock and aligning it with her entrance. She lowers herself slowly, the motion utter torture, and we both groan as I fill her.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I grunt.
She laughs, picking up her pace as she rides me into the ground. Her fingers get tangled in my hair, jerking my head to the side to give her access to my neck. She slows her thrusts in an attempt to torture me. Slow is not what I need right now – I need her. Deep and carnal.
Using my legs, I flip Chantelle on her back, not allowing us to separate, the look of surprise is clear on her face as her eyes widen. I chuckle in response, dipping down to bite the sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder. I pull out my dick slowly then slam into her hard and deep, setting a brutal pace to ease the chaos building inside me.
Chantelle grabs and claws at my back, as we both come close to our release. She cries out my name as she is once again overcome with ecstasy, and I am right behind her. In unison, our climax comes in a storm of grunts and curses. She pulls me down into a passionate kiss, while I release inside her and her body convulses under me. Her screams and moans fill the night air. The way she said my name in this moment in the garden, was the most beautiful way I have ever heard it said in my forty-three years.
Unwilling to let me go, Chantelle holds me in position, my thrusting slowed to a stop. When she finally releases me, my forehead drops to hers, our breathing labored in the wake of our euphoria.
“I love you,” I whisper, no longer holding back.
And living in the moment.
16
Liam
Fourgoddamnweeks.
A whole month since I had Malia in my sight. In my arms.
I stare at the crystal tumbler in my hand, the one I’ve already refilled three times since I barricaded myself in her bedroom at The Omen Mansion twenty minutes ago. My hands are stained with the blood of the men I’ve taken into the basement to question.
What started with picking men off the street who I saw had criminal records has gone to dragging in men who just seem to be shitty human beings. Record or not. Deep investigations to not target the innocent turned into desperation to plow through anyone, consequences be damned.
She’s gone. Vanished.
There’s no way someone around here doesn’t know something. Not with how the criminal underground thrives here in D.C. I just need to find the right fucker who will talk. I frown as I look from the photo on Malia’s nightstand to my glass, which is nearly empty again. Shrugging to myself, I throw back the rest of the contents and slam the glass on the small table.
“Thought I might find you hiding in here,” The Omen says from behind me.
I feel close to Malia in her room and at her condo. The apartment was never lived in enough to have much of her scent or personal touch anywhere but the bed. The bed that now only smells like me. I came to be alone so I can think, I have to be missing something.