Page 132 of Dream Chaser
It has been exactly twelve days—twelve full rotations of the Earth—since I last laid eyes on him, and in that time, I’ve replayed our last encounter so many times it’s embarrassing. Then he finally returns to New York like he’s just popping back to pick up his dry cleaning. Not a single hint on any of his social accounts, not even a check-in to bait the fans. Just a sudden, silent arrival, tanned and more muscley than I remember, Mississippi sun painted across his cheekbones, hair falling in casual, sun-kissed, lazy waves. So yeah, Griffon looks … delicious. Also, yes, I’m hungry.
My hand is resting on his thigh, which is honestly a little like squeezing a marble countertop wrapped in jeans. I’m not even going to try to play it cool anymore. He certainly hasn’t, stopping at my parents’, wearing my name, playing my fan, seriously adorable, yet still …
His eyes flick to me every few seconds like he’s trying to read a play. Right now, I still have the element of surprise, just like hehad earlier, but I can imagine it won’t take him long to figure out my motive.
I can feel the heat through his jeans, can tell from the grip he has on the wheel he’s already half-hard. So, I decide to take control back, right here, right now, with the moon shining and the village ten minutes away.
I let my fingertips wander, tracing lazy circles over the denim, feeling the tension coil beneath my palm. He doesn’t say anything, but his breath hitches just enough to make me smile.
I slide my hand higher, and he gives a tiny, involuntary jerk of the hips.
“Hands at ten and two,” I say, barely louder than the sound of the engine.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the passenger, Iz?”
I squeeze. “Trust me; I can drive stick from over here.”
He makes a sound, deep in his throat, something between a laugh and a groan, and his knuckles go white on the wheel.
I unbuckle my seat belt, slow and deliberate, and twist to face him as I move my knees up on the seat. He watches me out of the corner of his eye, trying to keep his attention on the road and failing.
I press my mouth to his jaw first—soft, just a hint of teeth—then follow the stubble down to his neck, where the skin is hot and slightly salty. He smells so good.
He shivers. “You trying to get us arrested?”
“That’s possible,” I say as I undo the button of his jeans and slide the zipper down, inch by inch, like I’m opening a present. To be fair, Skinner’s huge dick is a gift.
He keeps driving, but I can see him calculating:do I pull over, or do I keep going and see what happens?
I slip my hand inside and smile up at him. His eyes are locked on the road, but his jaw is clenched, and his breathing ragged.
“Eyes on the prize,” I say as I bend down, my hair brushing against his leg, and take him into my mouth, slowly, intentionally, until he hisses out a breath.
The passing streetlights outside tell me we’ve made it to town.
His fingers tangle in my hair, not pushing or guiding, just holding on for dear life. “This is—fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”
I look up at him, lips glossy, tongue flicking along the head of his cock. “Now, why would I do that?”
He doesn’t answer. He can’t. Not when I suck harder, take him deeper, and stroke him faster. All he can do is let out a strangled sound and bite his lip so hard it goes white.
I take him again, deeper this time, and feel every muscle in his body go taut. A vehicle behind us honks, but he doesn’t move. I’m not sure it even registered, but I don’t really give it much thought. I’m sucking Griffon’s dick, something I have wanted to do every time we’ve been together, and no, not just to give back because he’s so giving in the oral department, but because I simply want to feel him come apart.
I keep the rhythm—slow, steady, just enough twist of my wrist to keep him off balance—and taste the salt and sweetness of him on my tongue.
He tries to speak, but all that comes out is my name, like a prayer or a curse, and it hits deeper now. Not his dick, but the realization that I have him—really have him—right where I want him. The power rush is addictive, intoxicating.
I bob my head, nails digging into the muscles of his thigh, and he shudders, one hand gripping the wheel and the other still knotted in my hair.
I feel him getting close, hips lifting off the seat, body straining for release. He tries to warn me, but I ignore him, doubling down, sucking harder, until he pulses hot and wildagainst the back of my throat. He gasps, almost sobs, as he comes—hard.
I don’t stop sucking until I feel his body unknot and his hand untangle in my hair.
I sit up, wiping my lips and zipping him back up, maybe a little too roughly. He just stares at me, eyes wide, chest heaving.
“Jesus, Iz, that was … Fuck, that was amazing.”
I buckle myself back in and pat his cheek, like I’m the coach, and he’s the rookie.
