He puts his hand over my mouth, his mouth drops, and he sucks on my nipple. “Shut up and fuck me, Landon.”
I laugh through his fingers; my eyes are wide. “Elliot.” He bites my nipple and I buck as hard as I can as arousal begins to pump through me. I can feel the heat as it warms my blood. His tongue flutters at just the right tempo. My fear of getting caught mixed with his couldn’t-care-less factor is a heady combination.
Naughty meets nice.
He nudges my legs apart with his knees, and then, as if remembering something, he bounces off me and goes to his jeans, shuffles around in the pocket, and produces a small bottle of lube and two condoms. He holds them up and wiggles his eyebrows as if he just won the lottery.
I laugh, I can’t help it. He’s fucking adorable like this.
“Who are you and what have you done with grumpy Elliot Miles,” I whisper.
He lies back over the top of me and then in some kind of practiced move he flips us so that I am on top of him. My legs are straddled wide over his hips and he pours some lube onto his fingers and glides it between my legs.
My hands are on his broad chest as I hold myself up, his fingers exploring as he looks up at me. “He’s right here,” he whispers.
And isn’t he beautiful.
As we stare at each other, the feeling of his fingers on me, the shared arousal between us, something changes. I don’t know what it is, but it brings a flutter to my chest.
“Don’t,” he whispers. He grabs my hips and eases me down onto his hard body, slides my open lips up the length of his shaft.
“Don’t what?” I shudder. Oh . . . that feels good.
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like . . .” He slides into me again and his eyes roll back in his head.
I want to cut him off; I don’t want to hear what he has to say.
I know damn well how I was looking at him.
With ownership.
“Like I’m about to fuck your brains out?” I ask as I lift from his dick and slide it in deep as a distraction.
His knees rise as he takes me, overwhelmed by the sensation of our bodies locking together.
“Don’t open your mouth to say anything other than how hard you’re going to fuck me,” I whisper.
He chuckles and grabs my hip bones. “Yes ma’am.”
I smile down at him.
“What?” he grinds out.
“You sound so American when you say ‘yes ma’am.'”
“Funny that, seeing as I am a fucking American.” He lifts me up and slams me back down and I scrunch my face up to stop myself from crying out.
Oh God . . . that’s so good . . . too good.
“No.” I bend down and bite his lip. “I’m the one fucking an American.”
He chuckles and slaps my behind, with a crack as his hand connects. “Do it harder.”
We fall into a rhythm, and every now and then he lifts me too high and our skin slaps out loud.
“Sshh,” I whisper as I glance at the door. I grind down hard again, it’s quieter this way.
The feeling builds until it gets to fever pitch and I close my eyes to block him out. I can’t look down at him when I feel like this.
“Open,” he whispers.
I ignore him.
He grabs a handful of my hair and pulls me down to his face. “Open your fucking eyes and look at me while you come.”
I drag my eyes open, only millimeters from his face, and we stare at each other.
Frantic, animalistic, depraved.
He’s moving at piston pace, my body wet and open for him. He reaches up and bites my lip as he jerks violently inside of me. “Oww,” I whimper.
His hands hold me close and I shudder as I come hard.
He moves back from me and he licks his lips as if still hungry, his gaze dark and dangerous.
So different from the carefree man who brought me into this room.
Uneasiness creeps over me. Dear God, who am I sleeping with?
There are two versions of Elliot Miles.