Page 50 of Dream Chaser
“You staying?”
I hesitate. If this was anyone else, I might, but this is Griffon freaking Skinner, and it’s not happening.
He nods like he knows I’m not.
I release his hair and roll to my back. “Not bad, player.”
“You just gonna take yours and go?” he asks with a smirk.
“Please,” I huff.
“Good. Because I’m not ready to be done with you yet.”
And neither, apparently, am I.
I roll to my side, wrap my fingers around his cock, and—frickin’ A—it feels like a flesh-covered crowbar, veins popping up like ropes under my palm. My hand doesn’t even make it halfway around, and I did squeeze with real effort.
The look in his eyes is equal parts amusement and a challenge, a kind oflet’s see what you’re made ofthat makes my spine straighten in the best way.
He hisses and sucks in a breath, lips peeling back from his teeth in a wolfish, almost threatening smile.
“You think you can handle all I have to give, Iz?” he asks. His voice has dropped, gone gravelly.
“Please,” I say, ensuring I sound bored, like we’re just talking about the weather.
Sure, his dick is objectively alarming, but I’m not about to be the one who blinks first.
I roll my wrist, drag my knuckles down the length, and watch his abs clench up one by one, a six-pack domino effect. “You done shit talking, Skinner?”
He barks a laugh, and the sound vibrates in my chest. “Talk shit, take hits. That’s what weplayersdo, isn’t it?”
“So, this is what all the fuss is about?” I attempt to joke, but my own voice wobbles a little because he starts to move, just thrusting slow and steady into my hand.
Yes, his size is both a threat and a promise, but my competitive streak—mutant strong, a thing that burned my whole academic and athletic career—decides this is a challenge I am going to win, even if it leaves me walking funny for a week.
He looms closer, so close I can smell the body heat radiating off his skin, the musk and sweat sharp. His hands land on my hips, huge and heavy, fingers splayed so wide I feel like he could snap me in half if he wants. Instead, he just grips me, like I’m the barbell and he’s about to deadlift me straight off the bed.
He presses his forehead against mine, his breath coming harsh and fast. “You tap, I stop,” he says, and for the first time, there’s an edge in it, a hint of actual concern. Then he grins before licking my bottom lip because, apparently, he’s the type of guy who’d double down on a dare.
“If I tap, it’s just to reposition,” I shoot back, and then I do something totally on instinct. I bite his shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark.
He jerks back, and I swear I feel the swell of his cock pulse against my palm. He liked that.
The mood goes from competitive to carnivorous in half a heartbeat. He picks me up—literally picks me up—his hands firm as vices under my thighs, and flips me on my back, without breaking eye contact. He dips his head, and his mouth attacksmy collarbone like he is trying to brand me with his teeth. Fair game, I suppose.
He doesn’t ask. He just presses the head of his cock to my entrance, and for a split-second, I panic.
“Condom!”
“Fuuuuuck,” he groans as he moves off the bed, heads to his duffle, and pulls one out. He sheathes himself as he walks toward me.
Propped up on my elbows, I watch as he works it on, thinking there’s no way this is going to work, but then I remember who I am and what I want, and I force myself to relax.
As he crawls over me, I lock eyes with him, give a slow, exaggerated nod, and brace for impact.
He drags his cock along my seam slowly, almost taunting.
“You need a hug first or?—”
