Page 60 of Cowboy in Colorado
He laughs. “Neat trick. Probably cost a mint.”
I shrug a yes; his eyes follow the subtle sway of my breasts at the movement. “No idea actually. My dad built this building.”
He looks around—you can still see outside, but it’s darkened inside to nearly midnight blackness. “No one can see in?”
“Nope.”
He sighs, his eyes hungrily raking over my bare chest, hands scraping up to greedily caress my breasts. “I fucking need you, Brooklyn.”
“No condoms, no birth control, and pulling out is too risky.” I shake my head. “I need you too, but we can’t have sex.”
He growls. “I won’t last long enough to pull out,” he admits. “Need you too much, been dreaming and fantasizing about this for too long.” He meets my eyes. “So what do we do?”
I smirk, because there’s only one logical solution. It won’t sate either of us—it’ll only buy us time to get somewhere more private where I can scream, where we’ll have an endless supply of condoms and all the time in the world. But god, I want it. Now.
I slide down and sink to my knees. Stare up at him. “I have one idea.” I grin up at him. “I think you may enjoy it.”
His jaw tenses as I drag his jeans lower, so they’re bunched around his ankles, leaving him all but naked. “Brooklyn…”
“You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about this.” I wrap a hand around his shaft, another cupping his sac, stroking and massaging and fondling and caressing him until he groans. “You’ve dreamed of this.”
He closes his eyes for a moment. “I’ve woken up sticky from dreams of this.” His eyes flare open as I flick my tongue against him. “But it’s not gonna solve anything.”
“Maybe not. But you want it, and I want it.”
He frowns. “You want it?”
I nod. “I like knowing how much power I have over you.” I grin, hungry and wolfish and amused and eager.
“Power over me.” His voice is flat.
“You know it’s true.” I breathe on him, teasing. “Once I start, you’ll do just about anything.”
“I already will, and you haven’t done anything much yet.” He frowns down at me, brow furrowed, jaw tensed. “It’s just about power and control?”
“Of course not,” I admit. I’ve always liked doing this. Usually it’s a matter of foreplay leading up to the big show—nearly always, actually. Something about this with Will is, as with everything else, different. “I just want to.”
“A conversation for another time, maybe,” he says. “You have my attention.”
I grin. “Yeah?”
“Like I could say no to you going down on me—” He cuts off abruptly, because I chose that moment to take him into my mouth. “Holy fuck.”
I take him deep. As far as I can while still enjoying the sensation—which is, to wit: Him, squirming. Groaning helplessly, utterly at my mercy. Gasping at the feel of what I’m giving to him. God, this is so different from any other time before. How to put it? Before, I was doing it to get something. I liked knowing he liked it, but that was it. I think I did it to make sure he gave me what I needed. This is different. I’m giving this to Will because I want more than anything to know I can make him feel good. Words are so weak and useless:feel goodis nowhere near the right phrase. I want to know I can make him go crazy. I want his gasps and his shouts and his growls—the helpless thrusts, the begging whimper as I make him utterly lose all ability to hold back.
No holds barred. I use everything I know, every trick I have to make him lose control as fast as possible. Nothing held back, nothing drawn out. Maybe someday I’ll see how long I can make a blowjob last, but this is not that day. Today, it’s about getting as much pleasure out of him as humanly possible in the shortest amount of time possible.
Both hands stroke him and twist and plunge, and my mouth works in synch with my hands, my lips sliding slick down his shaft, my tongue swirling. All over him, every inch—I leave no part of his sex untouched, unlicked, unkissed. And then, when he groans, I increase it—speed of strokes, intensity of tongue, deep and fast.
He’s panting. Gasping in that small, breathy hopelessly gone male groan of abandonment. His hips begin thrusting, and I adjust to allow for it.
I feel him getting close.
I look up to watch his face as he gets there: a rictus of pleasure, a grimace, a study of the agony of ecstasy. Every line of his body is taut; everything about him is hard and tense.
“Brooklyn, Jesus,” he snarls. “Holy—holy shit.”
And then, moments before the release, he yanks away. “No, no.” He pulls backward, stumbling, hands raking through his hair. “Not here, not like this.”