CHAPTER NINE - OAKLEE
My God, he feels good. His tongue does magical things to me. His finger is gentle as it probes my inner depths. Maybe too gentle. I can feel the climax just waiting. Just hanging out, sitting on the edge of a hundred-foot drop, waiting for him to push me off.
But he doesn’t.
Oh, his tongue never stops and his finger keeps pressing. But he won’t let it enter me deeply. His tongue always misses my clit, and I know—I just know—he’s doing that on purpose. Lawton is a man who knows his way around a woman, I can tell. He knows exactly where my hot buttons are.
“More,” I say. “I want more.”
But he doesn’t answer me. Doesn’t stop what he’s doing. Doesn’t make even the slightest change in his movements.
It’s torture with a side of bliss.
It’s delightful suffering.
It’s playful agony.
And I don’t think I can take it. I don’t think he’s going for making me come in seconds and that’s what I want right now. He’s going to drag it out of me slowly just because he can.
“Lawton,” I groan. “Come on…”
But he just keeps licking. Just keeps pressing. His tongue deliberately missing the one place I want it so desperately to touch. His finger just deep enough inside me so I know what he could do, always holding back and never giving me what he should do.
“You’re teasing me.”
Which makes him laugh. The slight puff of air that escapes his mouth is like a vibrator set on the slowest speed.
I grab his hair and press his face into me. I grind my hips, searching for a way to make him slip. Make him relent and give me what I need.
But he pulls back. Withdraws his finger.
I stare at him, aghast. “What are you doing?”
The mischievous smile should be enough, but he takes it one step further and confirms my suspicions. “Taking my time.”
My breathing is heavy and quick, my mind spinning and a bit dizzy. My eyes want to close and I want him to go back to licking me, but he stands up.
“More,” I say, whispering the words.
“Oh, you’re gonna get more, Oaklee. Much more.”
He kicks off his shoes and pulls his t-shirt over his head.
I watch, transfixed by his perfectly muscled chest. And then he drags his jeans down his legs, kicks them aside, and just… stands there.
Moonlight is shining through the windows of my penthouse. Illuminating him on one side, keeping him cast in shadow on the other.
He is Adonis. He is David. He is perfection.
His cock is long and hard, lying against his thigh. The tip round and the shaft fat. He is fully erect. Ready for me.
So why won’t he just take me?
“Take me,” I beg.
He just shakes his head no.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He says nothing. Just sits down on the couch and pats his thigh. A come-hither gesture. A sit-on-my-lap invitation.
I don’t even hesitate. Just stand up, walk the few steps that separate us, and sit down on his lap again, pressing my pussy against his cock to try to entice him into giving in.
“Whoa there, cowgirl,” he says, his eyes still twinkling with mischief. “We’re not quite ready for that yet.”
How? I ask myself. How can he be so calm and in control and ready to go slow when all I want is for him to fuck me hard and make me come?
How could we be so different?
“Take off the jacket, please.”
I huff out a laugh. But I have that thing off in two seconds.
“Good,” he says, playing with my hair. “Now the shirt.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, I want to say back. But I don’t. Because I don’t think he wants me to be playful. I don’t think he wants me to do anything but listen to him and do exactly what he says.
So I grab the hem of my t-shirt and lift it up over my head, my breasts rising as I do it. I toss it aside, expecting him to be looking at my breasts and the way they want to spill out of my sexy demi bra, but he’s not. He’s looking me in the eyes when I find his gaze.
“Take it off,” he says.
My bra, obviously. So I reach around, unclasp the hooks, and the tension of the elastic eases, letting my breasts fall out of their tight constraint.
I feel like I can’t breathe. He’s watching me, still not looking at my breasts. But he’s got a small smile creeping up his face. Like this is going exactly the way he planned.
I shrug out of the bra and let it fall to the floor, unconsciously pressing my breasts together with my upper arms.
My nipples are tight, the soft skin stretched as they peak up.
“Play with them, Oaklee,” he says. “I want to watch you play with them.”
Good God. I feel wetness pooling between my legs.
It’s weird being controlled like this. Because even though he’s telling me what he wants and what he wants me to do, I feel like I’m giving it up freely.
I play with them. They’re not huge by any means. But they are ample. The size of small melons. I massage them with my palms, then tweak each nipple, pinching myself hard enough to make me wince.
How? How is he making me do this?
“Are you multi-orgasmic?” he asks, still not looking at my breasts, only my eyes.
I shrug. “I don’t think so. I dunno. I’ve never had that kind of experience before. I’ve never had this kind of experience before.”
“Do you want me to show you?” he asks.
“Show me?” I ask back.
“How to become multi-orgasmic?”
I nod. Because I would like that very much. So I say, “Yes. Show me how.”