I glanced down at him. He was fully aroused, his heavy cock pulsing.
Sore or not, sated or not, I wanted it again more desperately than ever.
Finally, he let go of my ankles, grabbing my wrists instead and pulling me to sit up, my splayed legs jolting together. He perched a foot snug at my hip, burying both of his hands in my hair.
I licked my lips and stared. He’d brought me within a few inches of his eager cock. I didn’t have to guess what he wanted.
I leaned forward, looked up to meet his eyes boldly, and tongued his tip.
He cursed and surged against me.
Keeping solid eye contact, I sucked his thick, plush head between my lips.
I had to break eye contact soon enough as he pushed deeper, and his jagged breaths became the only thing in the room louder than the sounds of my busy, sucking mouth and my milking, stroking hands.
There was no polite conversation about whether or not I swallowed, but as I felt his balls draw up tight, his orgasm close, I pushed back to suck at his tip, hands working him, my eyes on his face.
That was one thing that had stood out to me from the last few rounds. I loved to watch his face as his eyes went unfocused and wild, all of the coldness leaving them. I watched it happen again, relishing the sight.
He stroked my hair after he’d finished, my tongue still laving his tip, his eyes directed on me again, cold again, but admiring, at least.
After he finally pulled away, I lay back on the bed, not sure if I wanted to get off or pass out.
Without a word, he moved to my dresser across the room, unerringly going for my hidden vibrator, knowing which drawer it was in, exactly as though he knew just where to look, like he’d done it before.
My aroused, smitten brain didn’t linger on that, focused more on him and what he was about to do to me than on the things about him that should trouble me.
As he pulled the thing out, though, I managed to find my voice for something, at least, “Not that,” I said faintly. It was an intense toy. “I’m a little sore for that.”
He raised his brows, looking fascinated by the notion. He dropped the vibrator back in the drawer, hand going for his randy cock. He was already semi-hard again and looked in danger of easily losing the semi part of that. “Too sore for this, too, I take it?”
I bit my lip. I really wanted that again, but I was sore. I nodded regretfully, watching him handle himself casually and thinking that it was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.
His white teeth flashed at me in a smile that was more sinister than happy. “I’ve got just the thing.”
And he did.
My hands clawed into the sheets as he introduced me to the skill of his wicked tongue. He lapped at my sex, making himself at home down there, soft and gentle in a way I hadn’t thought he had in him.
Something occurred to me as he made me come, yet again.
If he was as complicated of a man as he was a lover, I was in trouble.
He moved up my body, kissing my lips, his sex nudging between my legs.
All soreness was forgotten, by both of us, apparently, as he pushed himself into me.
He did recall it briefly, though, when he was buried nearly to the root. “Too sore?” he murmured.
I bit his lower lip in answer, whimpering into his mouth as I didn’t feel coherent enough to talk. He took it for the answer he wanted.
With a rough groan, he shoved himself home.
And then he was gone, as sudden as he’d come.
He never said goodbye.
I passed out and he left.
That was it.
He didn’t even leave his number, or ask for mine.
There was no way whatsoever for me to misinterpret what that meant.
I honestly didn’t think I’d see him again. I was resigned to that. Not happy about it, but not bitter either.
Not bitter, because he’d given me something. Something I hadn’t thought to feel again.
Hope.
Sad as it was, for better or worse, my life had fallen apart soon after I’d turned forty, and I hadn’t imagined, couldn’t even conceive of the idea that my best years of my life lay still ahead of me.
And now, because of Heath, anything seemed possible.
The revelation was liberating.
A heavy weight had left my body; the dead weight of a marriage that I was finished letting deprive me. Of anything. Just finished.
I didn’t want to be deprived of anything anymore, or ever again.
CHAPTER SIX
It was a few days later, and I wanted to blame the wine, but I wound up telling my girlfriends all about him. Way too many salacious details. I hadn’t meant to so much as mention him, but was hard to hold anything back from the girls. They were those kind of friends.
We had a running bi-weekly girls’ night that I hardly ever missed. The group had been going on and off for several years, and though I’d only joined up with them about a year prior, it felt longer. Like I’d known some of them forever.
It was an impressive group of women. Over a dozen of us. Successful women. Beautiful women. Funny, entertaining. Some single, some married. A bit of anything you could want, really.
It was a large group, but it didn’t feel large. We came in all ages, and no one broke off into cliques. We all mixed well together.
Well, I should explain more. It was more than a girls’ night. It was more of a weekly, impromptu therapy session with friends. And alcohol.