He was an excellent kisser, exploring without overwhelming, seeking out her response as if a kiss were a waltz. He led, he didn’t dominate. And he kissed as if it was the goal itself rather than a hoop to jump through to get what he really wanted.
In Phoebe’s moderate experience, that was rare.
She was the one to start them moving toward something else. While their mouths waltzed, she slipped her hands from his neck and began undoing the buttons of his shirt. He took the hint and worked her buttons as well. As their shirts came off, she grabbed his belt, still keeping her mouth snug with his, and pulled him with her as she walked backward toward her bed. There, with her legs firm against the foot of her mattress, they finally let the kiss end.
They finished stripping, hardly looking away from each other. His eyes drank her up like water to slake a long thirst. Before he tossed his jeans away, he pulled out his wallet and extracted a condom. With a sly grin, he said, “Let’s skip the rainbow colors tonight.”
Phoebe laughed and slipped her fingertips into the waistband of his underwear: navy boxer briefs; she approved. “I don’t know. The purple kind of worked for me.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t your goods looking like they’d caught something terminal.”
She trailed her fingers up over the ridges of his belly, to the mounds of his pecs, through the light spray of hair between them. His muscles quivered under each touch.
“You seem pretty healthy to me,” she said. “I really like your body.”
His hands slid lightly down her arms. “I like yours, too.”
On a whim, Phoebe dropped to her knees, grabbing his underwear on the way and taking them down with her. His beautiful cock sprang free and brushed her cheek, leaving a light streak of wet there.
“Pheeb, ” he gasped in an earthy rasp.
The sound was perfect. The word was not. It was the first syllable of her name, yes, and thus an obvious choice for a nickname. A gesture of intimacy. But it was also a homophone of a slur she detested, one that had been tossed her way a few times after her injury, when she was still relearning how to be a person.
She looked up and waited until Duncan’s eyes opened and focused on her. “I don’t like to be called that.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“No need. Unless you do it again.”
“I won’t.”
She believed him.
Returning her focus to her task, Phoebe hooked one hand over Duncan’s hip—he had a subtle V-cut, and she settled her hand in that convenient slot—wrapped the other around the base of his pleasingly thick shaft, and brought her mouth to his tip. A bead of wet quivered there, waiting.
With the lightest of touches, she licked it up. His ass tightened, and his hips flexed toward her. She licked him again, with more pressure, and he groaned. His hand landed on the top of her head, but he didn’t grab at her.
When she sucked his full tip into his mouth, he groaned again, long and rough, and his hips began to rock. Picking up the tempo he’d started, Phoebe settled in and sucked him off, using her hand as well so she could touch all of him.
Though his hips rocked steadily, and she could feel a growing urgency all through his legs, his hips, his ass, he never tried to force more on her than she gave him. His hand remained on her head, firm but not forceful. He let her have complete control; he gave himself entirely to her will.
No man had ever done that with her before.
The experience of it, of being on her knees before a man, yet wholly in charge, entirely trusted, respected, was so powerfully arousing, Phoebe thought she’d burn to cinders. Her pussy throbbed hotly. Her juices slipped over her folds. Finally she let her hand slip from his hip, down his leg, to her own body. As soon as she pushed her fingers through her folds and found her clit, she moaned around his cock.
And Duncan grunted like he’d been stabbed. “Fuck,” he gasped. “Watching you suck me while you finger yourself is gonna break me in half.”
Phoebe set out to find out of that was true.
She almost brought them both to orgasm at the same time. Each time her own pleasure threatened to overwhelm her focus, Duncan would make a move or a sound so replete with fiery need she could only want to give him more.
Then he came, and she let him fill her mouth. As she swallowed, he scooped her from the floor, dropped her onto her bed, and settled between her thighs to finish her off with his mouth.
In mere seconds, he gave her the most explosive, consuming orgasm she’d ever had. And he stayed there, prolonging it right to the edge of pain, then drawing her down gently, until all her spasms had settled and her breath was nearly back to normal.
Where had this guy come from?
He crawled up over her until he was smiling (of course) down at her. “Hey, beautiful. You good?”
She brushed her fingers over his bearded jawline. “Where did you come from?”
“Broken Arrow,” he chuckled. “About sixty miles north.”
CHAPTER NINE
Duncan woke with his pillow vibrating. He shoved his hand under and grabbed his phone to turn off the alarm. The club was leaving on the patch-over run early this morning, and he’d spent the night with Phoebe, so he’d set his phone to shake him awake at three-holy-fuck-thirty A-kill-me-now-M.
Though the weather had become warmer, Phoebe’s bedroom had not. As the last time he’d slept over here, the room was almost cold enough to show breath. But inside their little nest of comforters and closeness, Duncan was warm and snug. Phoebe slept naked before him, curled up as the little spoon.
Getting out of this bed would be torture.
But being late for the run would be worse.
Taking the risk for a few more minutes of cozy peace, he tucked in again and pressed a light kiss on her shoulder, where a small cluster of faint scars sat like a grove of brambles. When she moaned softly and burrowed more deeply into the covers, Duncan leaned back again; he wanted to let her sleep.
He’d told her last night that he’d have to leave well before daylight, so she wouldn’t be surprised to wake up alone in bed. Even so, he felt guilty about it now.
That wasn’t a new thing; though he’d had only two relationships that had been anything close to serious or even monogamous, Duncan was not one to sneak out of bed, even with girls he’d picked up, barely knew their names, and had no intention of seeing again. He’d leave as soon as he could say goodbye, but he always stayed until he could say it. It was a matter of respect.
That was one of the main tenets of the extremely cringe—and also extremely valuable—lecture he’d gotten from his mother on the day he’d gotten his driver’s license. For Mom, that had been the day for the Big Talk about dating, sex, and how women experienced the world.
Dad’s Big Talk on the topic had happened a few years earlier and was more focused on what he could do, could not do, should always do, and should never do with his body, to himself or anyone else. Also extremely cringe and extremely valuable.
The common theme in both talks was respect. Where women and sex were concerned, Duncan had been taught to ask before acting, to be steady, to be responsive and attentive. To be, in a word, respectful.
That advice had worked out great for him thus far. He knew he was a favorite among the club girls, and he’d rarely had a woman who was glad to hear him say goodbye.