Page 48 of Conflagration
Snapping out of it, I follow after her, wondering how in the hell I’m going to be able to make it all the way home without ripping her clothes off in the limo. Somehow, someway, I’ll do it, but it’ll be fucking hard.
AS I leave Branson to let those words marinate, I hurry outside and towards the limo, not waiting for the limo driver to open the door before I slide in and set his stuffed treasures on the seat across from me. Finding the champagne bottle still chilling on ice, I grab it and bring it to my lips, quickly chugging as much as I can before I hear Branson’s voice outside the door. I take one last swallow and replace it, jumping over to my seat and wiping my mouth, hoping the liquid courage will help me with this whole ‘taking control’ thing.
I’ve been anticipating being able to be a more active partner when it comes to our sex life, but the closer it gets, the more nervous I become. Until this point, any time I’ve been on top, he hasn’t allowed me to move, barely letting me roll my hips out of fear of my stitches getting messed up. Even after my stitches were removed, he refused—thanks to the doctor’s orders. Now that I’ve gotten permission, though, I plan on making up for all that lost time, even if he doesn’t think he can give up control to me.
The door opens and Branson sticks his crutches in. Then he sits and slides across the bench seat until he’s right next to me. He eyes me suspiciously and then looks at the bottle. Leaning in, he kisses the side of my mouth before pulling back slightly.
“You had a little leftover there,” he whispers, playfully nipping at my lip.
With a shrug, I glance at him. “What can I say? I was thirsty.”
“Mmmhmm,” is all I get from him as he puts his arm around me.
I lean in to rest my head on his chest. “Tonight was the best, babe,” I tell him, turning and lifting up to place a kiss on his cheek.
He smiles down at me, a beautiful, happier-than-hell smile, as he starts teasing me about my less-than-awesome dances moves. I don’t mind; I know I have no rhythm, but it wasn’t about that. As soon as the music started, I knew I wasn’t going to be coordinated enough to do well, but I also felt his eyes on me, knowing he was watching, so I didn’t care if I sucked at the game.
The rest of the ride, we laugh and joke about the various games we played, and he loves teasing me about the basketball hitting my head. He even goes as far as to check to see if I have a bump, and I playfully push his hand away, trying to mask my own laughter. Before I know it, the side door’s opening and all of my anxiety about what’s to come bubbles up to the surface.
As Branson’s thanking the driver, I make my way inside and head to the kitchen, pouring us each a glass of wine. I resist the urge to gulp down half of mine when I hear the front door open. Branson joins me, setting his crutches aside, resting one hip against the counter, and taking the glass from me as I hand it to him. His brace is gone, and he’s standing there, barefoot, looking sexy as sin.
All of a sudden, ‘barefoot in the kitchen’ takes on a whole new meaning.
“Are you trying to get me drunk so you can have your wicked way with me?” he teases, his voice low and husky. He lifts the glass to his lips and downs half the contents in one fell swoop.
“It looks like you don’t mind,” I say, gesturing to the glass.
He grins and presses it back to his lips, tipping his head back and finishing it off. As he sets the empty glass on the counter next to him, he gives me a heated look.
“Don’t get used to it,” he warns.
I feel my belly flutter with anticipation. I’ve never been overtly sexual, at least not until I met Branson, so riding him wildly is going to be a new challenge for me. One I hope is good enough that he’ll want me to get used to it.
As I finish my wine, I take a deep breath, telling myself that this is it.Showtime.
His eyes watch as I slip out of my sandals, my hands coming up to slowly lift my shirt off. My fingers fumble slightly on the button on my shorts, and he starts to move forward—to help, no doubt—but I hold my hand up, stopping him in his tracks. As I step out of my shorts, I lean back against the island, letting him take in the sight of me in a pair of sheer, teal panties and a matching demi-cup bra that makes my breasts look two sizes larger than they are.
“Lose your shirt,” I order.
He cocks a brow but does as I asked, slowly unbuttoning the shirt and shrugging out of it as I watch his every move. He’s left in an undershirt, and I gesture for him to remove that as well. He hooks the front of his neckline and bends forward, pulling it off and giving me a glimpse of his rippling back muscles in the process, causing my mouth to water.
His jeans hang low on his hips, and I lick my lips, wanting to drag my tongue along that delicious V that’s pointing an arrow south—as if I need the direction. My eyes trail up his torso, enjoying the view of his toned abs. The scars from the accident are still pink, littered across him—a reminder of how we came together. Before now, I never thought of scars as a turn-on, but those pink, raised scars beckon to me. I have to stop myself from crossing the kitchen and kissing each one, showing him my eternal gratitude.
When I meet his eyes, all amusement has faded from them. His gaze is full of lust, and I know mine mirrors his.
Lifting my chin, I gesture to his jeans. “Take them off. Slowly.”
His eyes don’t leave mine as he unbuttons them, sliding the zipper down at the same time. My breath catches as he hooks his thumbs at the waistline and pushes them down, taking his boxers with him. His already hard cock springs free, pointing straight at me. He steps out of his jeans, using his foot to move them aside.
I take a moment to shamelessly stare at his naked form, a sight I’ve seen many, many times but still haven’t gotten used to. My eyes rake over him, stopping on his erection. I know I need a taste. He lets out a deep breath, raking a hand through his hair, as I move to meet him in the middle of the kitchen. My hands come to his chest, pushing him back lightly until his ass hits the counter behind him.
As much as I want him in my mouth, I take my time kissing his torso, paying equal attention to each nipple, licking and nibbling on each one until they harden in my mouth. Satisfied, I rain kisses down his chest and stomach, placing soft ones over each scar. He stands there stoically, not reacting to me—at least not vocally. I can feel the tiny shivers and tremors as I kiss each spot, but he doesn’t say a word.
After my lips have silently thanked each scar, I slowly fall to my knees until I’m eye level with his cock. Without warning, I lean forward and take him into my mouth. And by him, I mean all of him. I don’t start slow and sweet; I’m too hungry for him. I don’t stop until he’s hitting the back of my throat. He’s big, and I have the urge to gag, but I open up my throat for him, feeling empowered when a low groan escapes from his lips.
I pull back, hollowing my cheeks as I suck on the shaft, licking the underside until just the tip is in my mouth. My tongue flicks out, spiraling around the soft skin on the head, licking his opening. My hand comes to the base of him, and I take him back in my mouth, working in harmonious rhythm, intending to bring him to just to the brink without letting him slip over the edge.
As I deep-throat him, his hand comes up to the back of my head, where he presses against me with a slight amount of pressure. I pull back, take my free hand, and remove his from my hair. As I look up at him with my mouth still surrounding his dick, I see that he’s watching me with dark eyes. Shaking my head, I push his hand back to the counter, where I see him grip it intensely, the knuckles on each one turning white as he tries to control himself.
