Sweet Ache

I crave the love that will make me weak and know it’s not in the cards for me.

Her hands on my hips shock me from the shit suddenly clouding my head and bring my thoughts to exactly where they need to be. Right here. Right now. On her and how she’s touching me and just what I should do with this guitar.

She pulls me closer and I go willingly, my dick front and center as she sits before me. I gasp, a shot of straight lust streaking down my spine when she snakes her fingers beneath my shirt and scrapes her fingernails along the top of my waistband.

I’m instantly hard—it’s a thing with her—where when I’ve had more than my fill over the years it sometimes takes me a minute to catch up to the predictability of the moment. But when Quinlan touches me, I’m already thinking about how I’m going to want another night with her when the sex we’re about to have is over.

Wanting more sex is a given, but rarely with the same woman time and again.

Her fingers make quick work of my zipper but instead of pulling my pants down, she leans forward to where my cock is now begging for attention and looks up. A slow siren’s smile turns up the corners of her mouth before she darts her tongue out to wet her lips and fuck me; between the hunger in her eyes and her mouth open and willing, I know she’s about to destroy me in every pleasurably painful way possible.

She leans forward and presses her mouth to the material snug over my cock and blows hard and long. The hot air from her mouth seeps into the fabric and feels like it’s wrapping around my dick. It’s like she’s giving me the hint of a blow job, the tease of what she can do, and it feels so fucking good, I roll my head back and enjoy it.

Quinlan does it a few more times as her fingers tease the small amount of skin that she’s bared. I roll my head to the side as she tugs my jeans and boxer briefs down, my dick springing up when she clears it. And before I can open my eyes and look down at her, she has me in her mouth.

Our brief conversation from earlier flashes through my mind: handing her my latest test results showing a clean bill of health, her showing me her pack of birth control pills and a promise her test results are the uneventful kind like mine.

And thank fuck for the forethought of that conversation because a blow job with a condom on is nothing compared to the feeling of a wet, warm mouth sliding over rock-hard flesh.

I hiss out a breath, maybe her name, I don’t know because that would mean I’d have to think and right now there is absolutely no thought as her tongue slides across my head, dipping in to lick the drop of precum there. She wraps her lips around my crest, that fucking fantastic tongue owning me as it circles around and turns my knees to Jell-O. I’m gonna come on the spot.

I moan again, my hands gripping into her hair in reflex, gently urging her deeper although I’m pretty fucking sure I don’t need to give her any hints because the woman knows how to give a blow job. And I’ve had a lot of blow jobs, the quintessential go-to from a groupie to try to get something more.

But Quinlan does this … ah … I forget what I’m thinking about because my eyes roll back in my head and her name falls from my lips as she takes me all the way into the back of her throat and her fingers press in that spot just beneath my balls that causes bursts of heat to ignite and that ache to burn.

“Feels so fucking good,” I say in an exhale of air as she begins to bob her head onto the length of my cock: fingers stroking, mouth sucking, moan vibrating against my sensitized flesh. She looks back up, mouth full of me and her cheeks flushed, and for some reason it’s that right there that pushes me to the point of no return.

My muscles tense, my balls tighten up, my dick swells to the point of painful as the coiled ache of need unfurls and explodes. I lose my mind, can’t process anything except for the rush of pleasure I can only express with my jerking hips, my hands fisting her blond curls, and the cry of release sounding off the walls surrounding us.

It takes me a moment to come back to reality, for my breath to calm and my muscles to relax. When I open my eyes, I look down to see her sitting back on the couch, putting the cap on the bottle of water she just took a sip from, and a smug smirk on that mouth of hers that can own me like that any day.

We hold each other’s gaze, exchanging words we don’t have the courage to say aloud. And I can tell she’s just as freaked as I am by it because she starts laughing at me. Fucking laughing.

Talk about going from feeling like a king to being knocked down to feel like a pauper.

“What?” I ask, smiling wide because goddamn, she’s beautiful. And incredible … in ways I never imagined when I saw those long legs of hers standing on the steps of the lecture hall as she argued with Axe.

“You look kind of funny,” she laughs out as I look down at my own body and see how I look through her eyes. I have my shirt on, guitar still strung to my back with the strap across my chest, pants bunched around my shoes, and my dick just hanging out there.

When I look back up and meet her eyes, I fight my own smirk as I remove my guitar in a slow, deliberate motion over my head and lean it against the edge of the couch. I toe off my shoes and step out of my pants, hands stripping my shirt over my head, all while our visual connection never breaks.

“And you,” I tell her, fumbling for the words to make sense because fuck, I never have to try at this kind of shit—have never really cared—but something about tonight, about the song, about what she just did to me, makes me want to care. She makes me want to be worthy enough to be with her.

“Me?” she asks, with that slight taunting raise of her eyebrows and purse of her lips as she waits for me to tell her what to do.