Addicted (17 page)

Very wrong.

‘Whoa, hey,’ he says. ‘Why don’t we … uh … why don’t we …’

I hope he means to end that sentence with ‘have sex’. But to my horror he doesn’t. He wants to do the thing I thought we didn’t need to, for some inexplicable reason.

‘Maybe we should just talk, for a second,’ he says, in a way that should make me feel like a complete fool. He’s turned me into the guy, in this scenario, so hungry for his body I’d climb on top of it without a word of negotiation – and I should be mortified.

But when I go to check the box marked embarrassment inside me, it’s not there any more. I rifle through pages and pages of me, from falling flat on my face during P.E. to that time my boob popped out of the dress that Lori lent me, but there’s no shame to be found. There’s nothing.

And that realisation is just so overwhelming I don’t know how to bypass it. Part of me really does want to chat with him, if that’s what he wants. There are things I want to know and so many little pieces of him that I want to unravel. I still remember the way he went blank, when I asked him to share something about himself, and I’d dearly love to know why.

But this new-found freedom simply overrides it all.

‘I don’t want to talk,’ I say, like a completely different person from the one I was before. Then, even wilder: ‘I want to suck you.’

And I know it’s wild, too, because his answering expression is … impressive. I’m impressed by it, and I’m the one who made it happen. I think his eyebrows reach mid-air, and his single-word response is rather faint.

‘What?’ he asks, like an old lady who maybe misheard.

I
love
that I made him an old lady who maybe misheard.

‘I’ve waited long enough, and now it’s my turn. So get those pants off.’

And OK, I don’t sound quite as convincing as him. I’m missing some of his rough assurance, and I know my gaze isn’t as sultry as his. My eyes feel quite wide and guileless, so I’m guessing this is a little like being ordered to strip by Milly-Molly-Mandy.

But he does it, just the same. His hand goes to his belt, and then I get the utterly arousing sight of him slowly easing it out of the buckle – because, oh, I’ve always enjoyed that. The clink-clink sound of metal against metal, the whisper of leather … that sense of someone loosening a constraint …

It’s all very, very good.

As are the words he says to me, once he’s almost there. He’s got a hand on the top button of his jeans, and he’s maybe a hair’s breadth away from undoing them. And then he just tells me, in this husky tone of voice –

This
madly arousing
tone of voice –

‘You know how big I am, right? ’Cause otherwise I’m gonna warn you now.’

I don’t think he could have said anything better if I’d given him a script. My head spins at the sound of it, and that seed of an idea in the back of my mind takes root. Is this part of the reason why he kept putting this bit off? He said it was something else, but there’s a quality to that one word ‘warn’
that makes me think it wasn’t, not wholly.

And if so, I really have to put his mind at ease.

‘I have a pretty good idea.’

‘You sure? Other girls ran off screaming over a pretty good idea.’

I almost grin.
So I’m right, then
. I’m right! I’m actually starting to know him, just by watching his expression and taking educated guesses. I’m learning from the Master, and applying my lessons well.

I even get some of his confidence into my answer.

‘Baby, I am
never
going to run away screaming,’ I say, so suddenly sure of myself. So full of the kind of seduction I’ve always aimed for, but typically missed.

And then he worms his way out of his jeans and his underwear … and oh, God, I wish I’d been a bit more cautious. What was I thinking, taking on a persona I simply wasn’t ready for? I should have known that something like that only fits massive, handsome people like him. Put it on me and the arms trail on the floor … the shoulders sag around my stomach …

I’m a mess in it. I’m like a melted waxwork.

A melted waxwork who’s been really startled by someone’s enormous penis.

‘Oh. Well. That,’ I think I say. Mainly because I’ve forgotten what sentences are. I can’t even manage an ellipsis, or possibly an em-dash. I just stamp out those three words, complete with very final-sounding full stops on the end.

And of course he’s disappointed when I do.

Amused, but disappointed.

‘Knew you weren’t ready for that,’ he says, half-smiling, half-chagrined. And in a way he’s absolutely right. I’m still trying to speak properly, and I’m having to force my hand to stay away from my mouth. Most of the muscles in my legs seem to have disappeared, and I can’t stop staring.

But in another way … oh, praise be for Dillon Holt. Oh, let me immortalise his name in song. Can I compare his penis to a summer day? Because I totally would, if doing so didn’t sound insane. His cock is not only impossibly enormous – so enormous it’s like an optical illusion – it’s lovely to look at, too. There’s no kink that makes it veer off in an unexpected direction, no odd shift in colour halfway down or weird flap of skin where it shouldn’t be.

He’s simply smooth there, perfectly smooth and gloriously shaped. The head flares in just the right sort of way – one that makes me think of him filling my mouth so completely, so thickly – and at the tip he’s so deliciously slick. Oh, he’s so glossy and slippery and swollen, like he’s been hard for days and days.

Which I suppose he has.

I admit, I doubted it before. But now that I’m looking at his erection, pointing skywards despite the extra weight … I can’t really doubt any more. One stroke of someone’s finger could probably get him off. I think I’m pushing him close to it just by staring at him this way – and his expression confirms it. The smile has dropped almost completely off his face, and it’s been replaced by a sort of slack, flushed longing.

But in case I’m still not sure, he’s got some things to say.

‘Jesus, Kit, I feel like you’re fucking me with your eyes. You want this, huh? Come on and get it, girl. Come on.’

Some really, really arousing things, with a few gestures just to finish me off. He puts a hand up to his mouth and actually licks his palm – the way he licked me, I’m sure – and then he strokes himself, just once.

But once is enough. It’s enough to send a spike of sensation through me, and enough to make him push out this delicious sound. It’s like an
oh
with the smooth bits sawn off, all rough and guttural and so good to hear. And after it’s out he does something even better – something that turns the spike of sensation into a lance.

He takes his hand away, too quick.

Like he’s on fire there, and can’t stand to linger for long. Doing so would only lead to him making a mess, I think, though I’m not sure that’s what he’s concerned about, exactly. His own touch seems to make him all jumpy and jerky, and he spends a good few seconds gasping in this shocked sort of way.

And of course that’s what gets me going:

The idea that the pleasure is so strong, and so intense … he can hardly take it. He can’t stand it. He shakes that one hand as though he really did burn himself, before getting himself back together.

Though when I say
back together
, I really mean
falling apart
.

He looks the way I feel: like he wants to sprawl on the floor and never get up again. But he does better at resisting this than I do. He keeps on his feet, manfully, while I sink to my knees. And it’s only when my motives become clear that he starts to lose it a little.

‘Oh, so you’re really gonna …’ he says, though he seems to struggle for the rest of the sentence. He ends up beginning a new one, without finishing the first. ‘And on your hands and knees, too? Yeah, you’re just crawling over to me on your hands and knees … Jesus. Jesus, look, Kit … you should probably know before you do this that usually I can go for hours and hours. Honestly, I swear to God I can. So you know, if I kind of do it all over your face before you’ve even … licked anything … it’s really not indicative of my overall abilities.’

I wonder if this is why he wanted to talk first. But, if so, he should really know: the idea only excites me. I think of him doing what he’s just suggested and I almost lose my balance. I sort of slide over to him at an angle, then find myself a little stuck.

I’m jammed up with excitement. I’m going all nuts inside, and can’t really trust myself to touch him. Just the feel of his heat on the side of my face is enough to make me close my eyes and reach out a steadying hand, but unfortunately my steadying hand winds up on his thigh.

It’s just like I’m groping him. And after I’ve thought of that word –
groping
– I’m even more excited than I was before. I’m getting great handfuls of him, squeezing and rubbing like I just … really, really need to.

But not as much as he needs to put that hand in my hair. That shaking hand, so close to being something other than a caress. I think he’s almost desperate to urge me on … to maybe guide my mouth to him … and yet he holds back. He keeps himself in check, as though I won’t like it if he’s forceful over something like this.

And unfortunately I don’t know how to tell him he’s wrong. I just have to kneel there, shivering with anticipation, as he
almost
touches the side of my head. As he
nearly
tilts his hips a little, so that this big thick thing strokes along the side of my face.

And then I turn just a touch, in order to make it happen.

I can’t help it. I want to feel him sliding over my cheek, and the heat of him … ohhhh, the heat of him. I suddenly understand why he ripped his hand away from himself, once he’s there against my skin. It’s like he’s branding me with that heavy flesh; it’s like he’s searing himself into me. And he smells so sweet, too, so rich with sex …

How can I resist? How can I resist the sounds he’s making – these soft, breathless sounds? Or the feel of him shaking as I lean back a little and look up at his flushed face? He’s completely lost now, completely gone in a way I never thought he could be, and I kiss his cock for that.

I kiss it, slow and soft and wet. And when he doesn’t object – when he goes briefly weak in the knees and utters a curse word that I’ve never actually heard before – I do it again. Only deeper this time. I take more of him into my mouth, craving the sudden salt-sweet taste of him on my tongue … or the heavy feel of him pushing in.

Because he does, a little. He can’t seem to help it, any more than I could help my recklessness in the library. He just groans, and rocks his hips, and suddenly my mouth is full – though I’m not complaining. I like this role reversal. I like this loss of control.

And I like it even better when he puts it into words.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, as he slowly pushes into my mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just, God, you have no idea what that looks like. Oh, you have no idea what it does to me to see you taking it like that. You’ve no idea how often I’ve thought about you doing this to me.’

I wonder if it’s as often as I’ve thought about giving it to him? Probably not, if I’m honest. I’ve thought about it so many times I’m almost greedy for it, now that I’ve got it. My mouth is slowly getting sloppier and sloppier around that impossibly swollen head, and when I can’t take as much as I’d like – when I try to deep-throat him and end up with him telling me, ‘No, no, take it easy’ – I use my hand to devour the rest.

And then I use both of them, once I realise that one won’t do the job. I can’t circle him with a single thumb and forefinger. I have to clasp him like I’m in the middle of a prayer. I’m beseeching some deity, in a very pious way.

Aside from the giant penis, of course.

And all the slick sounds, and my frantic sucking, and the dirty words he chooses to say, about a second after I’ve taken him in my hands as well as in my mouth.

‘Oh, yeah, that’s it. Jerk me off, baby. Jerk me off just like that – ohhhh, right there.’

By ‘right there’ he means the sensitive spot on the underside – the one I’m rubbing, with my thumb. The one I’m barely sure about until he tells me it’s right. Other men I’ve been with? I could have stroked them there all night, and never known I was hitting any kind of jackpot.

But Dillon’s just not that sort of guy.

No. He’s the sort of guy who will say, if something feels good.

And he’s also the sort of guy who will quite shockingly show you more, if there’s something else that feels even better. If there’s something else that makes him sort of crazy – because this undoubtedly does. He takes hold of one of my hands and groans, ‘Like this, like
this’
,
and then suddenly I’m stroking him really, really far back between his legs.

Rudely far back. Arousingly far back. So far back I think he’s going to do something else, for one thrilling second, and then I get what he’s aiming for. I’ve read about it in books, during my more desperate moments – though I’ve never quite dared to put any of my seduction schemes into effect. I’ve never quite known how to go all out.

But it’s easy, when someone makes you.

He just presses my fingers into that soft strip of skin – hard, really hard, harder than I would ever have dared – and once I’ve done it, and got the hang of it, he’s ever so grateful. And by ever so grateful, I mean he grunts like an animal in heat and fists his free hand in his hair, which kind of feels better than a thank-you card, if I’m honest.

As do the things he says, once he’s regained his senses.

‘I’m gonna come. Ohhhh, man, I’m gonna come so hard. Fuck. Fuck. Oh, it’s gonna be way too much,’ he tells me, though he really doesn’t have to. I can tell it’s going to be too much by the way he sort of tries to curl right over my body. His foundations are collapsing, and he’s losing all coherence – not to mention control over his breathing. I think he might actually be hyperventilating, and then there are long stretches where he doesn’t breathe at all.

He forgets to, in such an alarming way that I have to glance up. I have to see if he really is about to faint on top of me, which sounds stupid in my head, but less so once I see him. His face is as red as mine feels, and his mouth seems to be open around words he can no longer get out.