Our gazes met, and he understood what I wanted. He lifted, helping me pull his pants and underwear down over his hips, and then he sat forward on the edge of the couch, pushing his clothes down to his ankles. I was going to resume what I’d been doing, but he seized my face in his hands and crushed his lips to mine.
He’d said my mouth would be adequate, and it was clear he meant to use it in every way.
His kiss obliterated.
It could level buildings and decimate cities and win wars. I gasped into his hot mouth. When his tongue stroked against mine, I felt it between my legs. And as our kiss deepened, his hands moved, slipping down my neck and over my shoulders. His fingers flowed down my arms then inched their way onto my back.
I’d thought his kiss last night was the best of my life, but he topped it easily with this one. I was naked, held in his suit-clad arms while his lips were fused to mine, and his hands skated up and down my back. He trailed the hollow of my spine with the sides of his thumbs, and the way he touched me . . . it was reverence.
Like I was some priceless thing he’d chased after for so long and couldn’t believe was finally his.
I wanted to touch him the same way, but when I put my palm on his chest, buttons reminded me of the barrier in my way. I picked at the first one, clumsy and fumbling, struggling with my urgency.
Perhaps he wanted my touch even more, because Macalister broke the kiss. He delivered his piercing stare while he effortlessly undid the buttons and opened his shirt, revealing the beautiful landscape of his chest.
There was a faint scattering of dark hair across his upper body, and a line of it that led my gaze downward. He was toned and sculpted, looking like he spent more time in the gym than in an office, which up until recently had probably been true. Damn, he was way too good-looking to be fifty-five.
I placed my hand on the center of his chest and gently pushed, urging him back, and as he slumped into the couch, I trailed my fingers down over his skin and the faint notches of muscles they discovered.
Lust filled my bloodstream like a drug, and Macalister peered at me with anticipation brimming in his eyes as I took hold of his cock, resettled myself on my knees, and went down on him again.
His knees were spread wide, but his halfway-off pants were still sort of in my way. Once I tucked my legs beneath them, I had complete access. I looked up the long, bare slope of his body while I sawed my mouth side to side, inching as far down as I could go.
He’d promised he’d tell me how he liked it, but I must have been doing a satisfactory job, because he gave no notes. Macalister’s lips parted and his face twisted with pleasure, which sometimes was so strong it looked a little like agony. I pumped my mouth on him, alternating between short, quick strokes and long, deep ones where I could tease with my tongue.
There was a quiet thud as he tossed his head, and it banged against the back of the couch. His chest heaved when I squeezed my hands along the part of him I couldn’t take inside my mouth. My fingers were wet with my saliva and the drops of arousal that had leaked out of him.
It was so fucking hot.
Hotter still when his hand went back to gripping the edge of the couch, and his knuckles went white.
I slid my fists and lips over him faster, and faster, and—
“Slow.” He was hoarse with lust. “Make it last.”
I paused my mouth, resting his tip against my smiling lips, using my tight fingers to stroke from the base to the head at a measured pace.
“Yes,” he whispered, looking down at me with a hunger I felt in my bones. He was short of breath, making it come out between two pants for air. “That feels incredible.”
My smile widened to a full grin. Seeing him like this? That felt incredible too, like a secret he was sharing only with me. His fingertips brushed across my cheekbone, and his hand slowly curled behind my head.
This time, he was intent on directing. He’d given up control to me long enough. His other hand abandoned its grip on the cushion so he could gather my long blonde hair up into a loose ponytail, and he held it out of our way. It gave him an unobstructed view as he disappeared beneath my rounded lips and slowly reappeared, glossy and wet.
He gently pushed and pulled me, establishing a slow, steady tempo to seesaw in my mouth. The deep breaths he took carved dark hollows beneath his cheekbones, making him look powerful and commanding. I heaved my hands up and down outside of my lips, twisting and squeezing and wringing pleasure from him with each pass.
The pace he demanded began to build, both in speed and urgency, like a switch had been flipped inside him and now he was desperate for release. His hands tensed in my hair, some of the strands pulling awkwardly to the point of pain, and my jaw ached with discomfort. But it was worth it, because his sighs had grown too loud, too full of satisfaction.
They were moans, the kind that welled up from deep in his chest and the back of his throat.
I moaned softly too, thinking about what was happening, how I was naked between Macalister’s large thighs, my head bobbing furiously as I went down on him and brought him closer to ecstasy.
“I want to finish,” he gasped, “in your mouth.”
He didn’t phrase it as a question, but he was asking for consent. If I didn’t like this idea, all I had to do was pull away. Of course, I wasn’t going to. I wasn’t just enjoying it. I wanted to please him, to push him over the edge and make him lose control. And he sounded oh-so-close.
It took only a few more pumps before it happened. The muscles in his legs strained, and he jerked, his breath cutting off. One of his hands let go of my hair, making it spill like a curtain around my face, but I could still see well enough to watch his head tip back to the ceiling. He threw his forearm over his eyes, his entire body shuddering.
“Fuck,” he groaned.
I nearly came myself, hearing my favorite word draw from his lips and to know I was the cause.
He spurted in rhythmic jerks, filling my mouth, and I swallowed as quickly as possible, keeping my lips fixed tight around him. Not that I could go anywhere. His hand cupped the back of my head and held me in place as his climax rolled through. When the pleasure began to ebb, he eventually released me. The flick of my tongue as I made my retreat caused him to flinch, still overly sensitive from the orgasm.
I sat back on my heels and gazed up at him sprawled across the couch. He looked devastatingly gorgeous laid out like this. As if I’d drained most of the power from him, but each ragged breath he took worked to restore it. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and he finally lifted his head and set his intense, focused gaze on me.
He’d found his release, but he stared back at me like he wasn’t yet satisfied. Macalister was still famished, and the pleasure he wanted to consume now would be mine.
But trepidation flooded my stomach, and years of anxiety weighed me down. I craved attention, but only when it was for the right reasons. Foreplay for me was nice and all, but it was an exercise in frustration. With sex, I was able to just enjoy without feeling the pressure to achieve. Because everyone knew women didn’t come every time they had sex, so it seemed normal to guys when I didn’t.
But foreplay?
I’d never had an orgasm from someone going down on me.
Or using their fingers.
In fact, I’d never come in front of anyone else. I could do it myself, but only in the darkness of my room, alone in my bed.