Page 8 of Wicked Player

His laugh was soft but deep, and somehow my cheeks ached from smiling. Sex with strangers was often daring. It was evocative.

Rarely was itfun.

The crinkle of foil grabbed my attention and despite my pleas that I was done, my knees widened for him without being told.

“See? You do need more.”

“Maybe just a bit.”

“It’s more than a bit,” he quipped back. I hadn’t forgotten. But hell, I hoped I was ready for this. If he could make me sore from a good finger bang, what could he do with his dick?

I didn’t have time to ask. He was above me then, his legs spreading mine open farther. His lips were at my jaw, my ear, teasing and nipping at my lobe. I turned toward him, instinctively. Not everyone liked to kiss.

He hadn’t said it was a hard limit.

Tristan would have let me know.

Then his mouth landed on mine. Like before, he didn’t tease, he didn’t build up. He took what he wanted and slid his tongue inside, devouring the cavern of my mouth while the firm tip of him rubbed against me.

“Fuck,” he groaned. He slid inside slowly, unlike his kisses and everything else, but God I needed that.

“Shit,” I chanted.

“Am I hurting you?”

“No.” God, it didn’t hurt. It was a fullness, a weight, and it was incredible. “More.”

He pulled back, and for the millionth time, I resisted the urge to remove my blindfold. When he kissed me again, he was smiling. “And you said you were done.”

“You’re driving me crazy.” He was moving in and out, going deeper on every inward thrust but the pace was killing me.

“Trust me, I feel the same. You feel fucking amazing. So tight and wet. Burning hot. You’re a fantastic fuck, little one.”

“Shit,” I gasped again. “Please faster.”

“You’ll get what I give you.”

“It’s just that you give such good presents.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, slamming deep. He collapsed on me, falling to his elbows at my sides and buried his face in the crook of my neck. “I wasn’t expecting a comedy show. Goddamn, you’re feisty.”

His shoulders and back shook with his laughter, but then he rose, and I missed the heat of him. He was so much taller than me, my lips were at his shoulder. He’d had to bend to kiss me and fuck me. Good Lord, he was strong.

“Done playing,” he said. And his tone had gone dark. “You feel too damn good. Put your hands on my wrists.”

I wanted to keep them on his back, his muscles were divine and defined. With every thrust, every movement, some hard piece of him bubbled beneath my hand.

Still, I listened and adjusted until I wrapped my hands around his wrists.

He moved rapidly, thrusting his body into me, groaning while he did it. If he could finger bang me to oblivion, I’d be in another galaxy by the time we were done. He shifted and lifted my hip, went deeper, dragged himself along the rigid muscles inside of me and soon my head was tilted back, gasping for breath.

He seemed to do the same. His speed increased, his kisses stopped. His hand at my hip moved again and he leaned forward.

“Don’t come yet,” he groaned. “Not until I do.” His hand was at my chest, moving up. He curled it around my throat and beneath the blindfold, my eyes widened.

I gasped in surprise, a small amount of fear. But he waited until my orgasm was closer. Pleasure swarmed my body and I said the only words I could make. “Please. Yes.”

He grasped my throat. Just enough pressure to remind me he was there but even that little bit drove me insane. I swallowed beneath his hand and inhaled as deep as a breath as possible.

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