Page 10 of Praised By the Lumberjack

As we approach his truck, Flint turns to me, his hand cupping my cheek. "The night doesn't have to end yet," he suggests.

"I don't want it to end," I admit.

His kiss starts gently but quickly turns hungry. I press myself against him, savoring his warmth. A boldness I didn't know I possessed takes hold of me.

"Get in the truck," I whisper, surprising myself with my directness.

Flint raises an eyebrow but doesn't question me. He slides into the driver's seat, and instead of sitting beside him, I climb onto his lap, straddling him.

"I want to make you feel good," I tell him, "like you made me feel good."

His hands find my waist. "You don't have to—"

I slide off his lap, positioning myself between his legs. The confined space of the truck cabin feels intimate rather than restrictive, creating a private world where only we exist. My hands tremble as I work open his belt and then the button of his jeans. I swear I know how to undo a button, honest.

I free him from his boxers, my breath catching at the sight. He's impressive—thick and long, with a prominent vein running along the underside. A drop of moisture glistens at the tip, and without thinking, I lean forward to taste it, my tongue darting out to collect the essence of him.

Flint hisses, his hand gently resting on the back of my head. "That's it," he encourages, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. Take your time, beautiful. There's no rush."

I look up at him, suddenly uncertain. "I want to make you feel good, but I'm not sure exactly how..."

His eyes soften with understanding. "I'll guide you," he promises. "Do you trust me?"

"Completely," I whisper, the word feeling like a sacred vow between us.

"Wrap your hand around the base," he instructs, his voice gentle but firm. "Not too tight—that's perfect."

I follow his direction, marveling at the contradiction of soft skin over hardness. I can feel his pulse beneath my fingers, rapid and strong.

"Now, use your tongue," he continues. "Trace the underside, from base to tip."

I lean in, doing as he suggests, running my tongue along the prominent vein. His sharp intake of breath tells me I'm doing something right.

"Good girl," he praises, and the words send a rush of warmth through me. "Circle the head with your tongue."

I explore him with growing confidence, swirling my tongue around the sensitive ridge, learning what makes his breath catch, what draws those deep, rumbling groans from his chest.

"That's it, Hazel," he murmurs, his fingers threading through my hair. "You're a natural."

My earlier nervousness fades, replaced by a sense of wonder and power. I, quiet librarian Hazel, am bringing this strong, confident man pleasure with just my mouth and hands.

"Now take me into your mouth," Flint instructs. "Just the head at first. Use your lips to cover your teeth."

I take him between my lips, careful to keep my teeth covered as he suggested. His taste is stronger now—salt and musk and something uniquely Flint.

"Perfect," he groans. "So perfect, Hazel. Now, use your hand and mouth together."

I coordinate my movements, stroking with my hand while taking him deeper into my mouth with each bob of my head. Finding a rhythm takes practice, but Flint's patience never wavers.

"That's it," he encourages. "Hollow your cheeks a little. Yes, just like that. You're doing so well."

His praise washes over me like warm rain, each word driving me to please him better, to earn more of those delicious affirmations. The vulnerability of the position—on my knees before him, my mouth stretched around him—feels empowering rather than degrading. This is my choice, my desire, my gift to him.

"Look at me," he says softly. "I want to see those beautiful blue eyes while you take me."

I raise my gaze to his, maintaining eye contact as I continue sucking him off.

"God, you're gorgeous," Flint breathes, his thumb tracing my stretched lips. "Such a good girl for me, so eager to please. Theway you look right now, Hazel..." He trails off, seemingly lost for words.

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