I'm honest about what I am. You want to screw until you can't see straight? I'm your guy. You want to experience the best oral orgasm of your life, don't pass go and collect two-hundred dollars. Eating you for dessert is my specialty. I live for that. Skinny, average or meat on your bones, I don't care. Blonde, brunette...white, Asian, black...
Are you pink where it counts? Then you're my type.
I'm your guy.
For the duration of our affair, I will call you Sugar because I can't bother to retain your name.
That's the kind of man I am, and you will know that going in. I make sure of it.
So it's not my fault her friend loved me, but She is going to make me pay for that.
And I'm too addicted to her taste to walk away.
“You're in between jobs?” The woman scrunches up her nose and I continue to smile.
The scar on my left cheek looks like a dimple when I do. The dimple makes me look sweet, congenial. You can take me home to mama. I'll say “yes, ma'am,” and “no, sir.” In the bar's shitty, low lights my sandy brown hair would gleam, rounding out good ol' Southern boy with charm and manners. Never fails to amaze me they miss the glint in my eyes, but my baby blues are deceptive.
And Cali girls love accents, even in big cities like Hartsburg.
“Sugar,” I say, “I know what you're thinking. Unemployed and thinks his good looks can get him far.”READ MORE
Her cocoa brown skin looks perfect as she raises a brow. “Yup. I'm thinking you probably can't even pay for my drink.”
“Sugar.” I drop my tone and put every bit of Georgia in the single word. Some ancestors roll over in their grave, but this is the honey. I catch all manner of butterflies with it. “What do you want to drink? It's on me. I won't even mock you if you get something girly.”
“Oh, you won't?” She laughs and whatever she put in her coiling curls glistens in the glowing light.
She's pretty, and not just in a serviceable way. Her brown eyes may be doe-shaped, but there's something in her gaze that's holding my attention. Not surprising. I'd caught sight of her when she'd first came into the club. Her walk wasn't timid. Closer to a strut, with long, sure steps. Standing next to her and leaning against the hardwood, I still have a few inches on her. That makes her short and sexy as shit. Altogether, she's...interesting and I want to taste her.
Yes. Attraction is that simple for me. Would I like her to sit on my face? Yes. Proceed. No? Pass. I am nothing if not a simple man.
“I swear,” I say, “I will keep back any untoward remarks about your fruit being in your liquor.”
“You make a lot of assumptions.”
“Then what are you drinking?”
She leans against the bartop and makes eye contact with the bartender. She puts her tits—in the low-cut black dress she's wearing—on the bar. Tastefully displayed tits, sure, but still cleavage for days.
Now, this was my usual hangout. I often came with my friends, Duke and Tarek. They are buffers. Lone men in clubs are suspicious looking. The DJ ain't half bad any given night either.
But that's beside the point. This is my usual hangout. I'd been waiting five minutes to get noticed. She puts her tits on the bar like she's going into female-stealth mode for booze, holds Elton's gaze for five seconds and the man damn near floats over to her. She smiles, and the way her eyes crinkle even has me holding my breath.
What the fuck?
“I'll have a martini.” She edges her body in my direction.
I know it's a good sign, but I'm still reeling from the subtle moves she pulled on the bartender. Her smile though—it was seductive and shy. All she had needed was a lip bite, and at least three men in the vicinity would have proposed marriage.
I narrow my eyes and recalculate how I'm going to talk her out of her panties. She's going to require more than charm and a smile.
Elton finally manages to throw some attention in my direction. He's maybe in his early twenties, hits the gym enough he could probably moonlight as a bouncer for Fade. Blond hair, cautious brown eyes. Normal. “The usual?” he asks.
“Yeah. Scotch, rocks.” The exchange over, I go back to checking out Stealth and Heels.
Her brows are up. I know that she knows that I know she's knocked me off balance, but this is the game. At least I'm aware she's on my level. I pay for our drinks and slide in closer. My body is facing hers. I'm open, and if she wants to flirt with her hands she can.
“Martini?” I ask.
“I like my fruit to stay fruit. Though I've never turned my nose up at a margarita. Salt, booze and lemon goes well together.”
“But tonight you're a no-olive girl.”
“And you're a straight scotch boy.” There's an edge to her tone I can't pinpoint, but her lips curve into a smile again. “Now I'm sure that means something symbolic, but we both know why you're practically trying to crawl up my skirt.”
Yeah. I want her to sit on my face. She's not turning me away, yet, so I know there's still a chance.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot her friends signaling to her the way women do. Is he okay? Want us to get rid of him? He's cute; you should fuck him. I have a love/hate relationship with women friends. They can be my best wingman or they can make my balls want to crawl into my stomach. They can ruin a perfectly good understanding. Depends. From a quick glance, I can see tonight her friends will be my wingman.
Interesting, though. She doesn't seem like the type to need friends to bolster her into men's beds. She has a brazen confidence that shines through, which makes me think she does what she damn well wants to.
“My intentions are pure, Sugar.”
“As driven snow?”
I laugh at her wit. “Just about.”
She brings the drink up to her mouth, takes the kind of sip with a head tilt that might make another man think about her throat and his cock in it, but I'm waiting for the challenge she's about to throw my way. The air around us has a bite of tension that has my skin tight on the bone. It's make or break time.
She finishes the display and draws her tongue over the moisture left behind on her lip. Don't get me wrong. It's fucking nice. There's a buzz in the back of my head now, but...
Some men are all about tits or ass. Doesn't matter if they are covered in shirts— fuck, parkas—the hint of tits or ass, can make their dicks do a salute.
Tongues are not my thing.
Tits and ass are not my thing.
I'm trying my fucking best to get to my thing, and she's about to tell me how. I can't get distracted. Women tell you exactly how to fuck them and, if you're smart, you'll dictate it word for word.
“Nathan Ellis, right?” she asks.
I blink, and all thought drops away for a moment. Did I tell her my name? I sure as shit can't remember hers, as always. “Yeah,” I answer, a bit wary now.
“I've heard about you.”
That's...not a good thing. Not in the tone she's using. “Have you?”
“Former army and, when you were on leave, you stripped on the low.”
My skin goes dead cold. “Never have I stripped while I served my country.”
It's a fucking lie. I did and it's why I can be between jobs. I lived within my means even when I was pulling in ten grand a month. My government check paid all my bills, and I stuffed the rest in bank accounts and sometimes mattresses.
She adds, “I'm not trying to trip you up.”
Maybe, but you never know. “And what does all that mean?”
“It means, I'm not going to let you fuck me and drop me, Sugar.”
This is my problem. Women talk. I can't guess who she might have known, and it won't matter. If she knows my old work, she probably knows my every trick, because women fucking brag. Or whine. Depends on what I did to end things.
I'm not always as gentle as I liked to be. Some of my past...lovers, for lack of a better word, don't get that it's over when I talk slowly and use euphemisms. Apparently when I say things like “I want you to come on my tongue” that is considered dirty talk, not relationship goals.
Fine. I know, but that is not the point. I'm honest and upfront. It's part of my moral code. I don't fuck with women with low self-esteem issues, because my thing is not for the faint of heart. I eat pussy. Some say I eat pussy like a god.
Why does licking pussy get me off, of all things?
Imagine ice cream. No, cake. Even bad cake is still cake. There can be strawberry, chocolate or lemon filling. The core flavors can range from red velvet, vanilla, chocolate, or whatever you create. Cake can be made in every size and shape. You tell yourself you shouldn't indulge, but if the cake is good, you do. Year after year, event after event—there's never really a bad or inappropriate moment to eat cake.
Pussy is my cake.
A woman's come is her own personal-flavored icing. If you want to wish me a happy birthday, place a candle between your pussy lips. I will feel warmed by the gesture and touched at your thoughtfulness.
You did all this for me? Aw. Shucks.
I take a drink for fortitude. This pretty woman with an interesting walk already—this woman with brown skin that seems to glow—is going to leave while I haven't had a taste of her yet. I've reached a point where I need to know.
Then think, Nate.
“Well, Sugar, aren't you curious if you heard the truth about me?”
Her body is still angled in my direction. The cues are there. Her friends are still watching with interest. A quick scan of their faces and, nope, none I've ever tasted.
“If you can strip real well?” Her gaze travels down my torso, my legs, and I'm meat to her.
I've been that before and don't mind it. I work out once a day for a few hours. It's all habit for me now. Has been since I signed up to die for Uncle Sam. You can take the boy out of the military, and he still might have an eye twitch and a trigger-happy finger.
“Never did that,” I say again.
“You have the body for it. Bet you can do the whole Magic Mike routine.”
I've done it before, a two month tour, and that is why I could own a Ferrari if I wanted one. “Not what I meant, and you're smart. I know you know that.”
Tongue on lips again, and again my scalp tightens on my skull. My attraction has nothing to do with her playing hard to get. Her mouth is full, a shade lighter than mocha and my primitive self finds her appealing.
But, seriously, what the fuck?
She's shot me down. Walking away is the next step. Or should be. I let my gaze track over the club to see if anyone else catches my eye. The night is young, and the music hasn't even been set to ear-bleed yet.
No one looks as interesting as her.
With a sigh, I bring my full attention back to Stealth and Heels. “Since you seem to know everything about me, tell me something.”
“Tell me my name.” She raises a brow.
I pull a hand through my hair and figure shit is going south anyway. I lean down so my mouth is right on her earlobe. “Stealth.”
She puts a hand to my chest and laughs. “What?”
“You put your tits on the counter to get the bartender's attention. That's stealthy so...Stealth and Heels.”
“And or in?” There's amusement in her tone and she hasn't pushed me away.
“So you're admitting you have no idea what my name is?”
To my surprise she leans into me, leaving no room between us. My cock perks to attention. Her dress is a second skin. I can pretend for a moment she's bare against me, and though I'm not a tits man, hers are full and soft—I want to lick, bite and suck them until her eyes roll back.
She tilts her head and we're cheek to cheek. “I know what you are, Nathan. I know what you need.”
She's speaking words, but all I can hear in her low, sultry tone is fuck me hard. And I'm an accommodating man. “Are you going to give it to me?”
What? I'm not going to say no. Or talk her out of whatever she's planning to do.
“You torture women, you know that, right?” The huskiness in her voice is the best friction.
“Torture?” I ask.
“Mind blowing head. And then they have to somehow live the rest of their lives cold turkey or with second best. That makes you an asshole.”
“Not my fault I'm good at what I do.”
She shifts and her skin brushes my cheek again. “It is when you know damn well the woman is looking to settle down.”
“I never lie.”
“You never turn a woman away either.”
“They're all adults.” I don't fuck women who need help. Genuine help. Telling her that feels too much like defending my life choices. I, also, don't make a woman believe I can love her. That's cruel.
She huffs. “You have every intention of destroying her world.”
Red flashes over my vision at the accusation. “And what are you going to do about it, Sugar?”
She laughs—I'm not sure if it's at me—and I fucking feel the sound in my every bone. “You want a taste of me, Nathan?”
She's needling me, and I nip her earlobe. She moans, pressing a hand to my chest, but not to push me away. After all that we circle back to what I want in the first place.
I ask her, “Where do you want to go?”
She grabs my hand and shifts closer into my space. My fingers brush between silky thighs, soft inner skin and then there's wet heat. I glance down, shocked and fucking ecstatic that Stealth and Heels is a fucking freak. In a room full of people, with her friends twenty feet away, she's put my hand up her skirt. She's taking the lead and I don't mind that.
My cock loves it.
So I close my eyes as she guides my hand to my favorite place on a woman. Is her clit thick and long or short and pert? Full lips or does everything sit out to greet me? No two pussies are alike and I love it. Live for that shit. Will she be chocolate brown until the pink begins? Because no matter the flavor, every woman is pink on the inside. I want to see what I'm feeling. Since seeing isn't an option, I'll take what I can get.
All I know is that she's swollen and wet. Her cream has a nice consistency. I can practically taste her salty tang. She doesn't gasp when I caress her to get my fill.
Seconds pass, but the moment seems to suspend forever before she pushes my hand away. I step back to check for a flush that must have darkened her cheeks. Nothing. Just assessing eyes.
I lift my hand to wave my finger beneath my nose. I can't describe her smell, but she can suffocate me if she wants to. I'll die happy, and they will not be able to close my casket on the postmortem erection. It will defy science.
A groan spills out while I slip my finger between my lips as she watches, a smile curling her mouth. Tangy and sweet and fuck me.
“You like?” she asks, nothing coy in the question, just preening.
Based on her smell and taste, she should preen. “If you'd let me, I'd sit you on the bar and make you squirt.”
“Just with your mouth?”
She studies me again, sizing me up, and then she scrunches up her nose. “Pass.”
No. Really. What the fuck? I clamp my mouth shut because it's dropped open at her rejection.
“But it's been interesting, Nathan.”
What. The. Fuck.
I go to say her name and trip on Stealth. I close my eyes and tighten my jaw. When the urge to shake her passes, I glare down at her. Takes another second for me to clap, slowly, 'cause she's played me well, and there's fuck all I can do about it. She's had her moment and she should shine in it.
I'll forget her when I find someone else more willing. It won't be tonight. Tonight all I will be able to do is taste her. No amount of scotch will wash her out of my mouth.
And, really, what the fuck? Someone—likely a pissed-off former lover—who knows me, my past, and my fetish sent Stealth to fuck with me. There's no other reason for Stealth to walk up to me, let me get my fill, and then walk away. This is revenge—served wet and sweet.
“Tell whoever sent you I fucking hope they get fucking crabs.”
She laughs then picks up her drink. “Cute and funny. You had potential. Night, Nathan, and have a nice life.”
I respect her mercenary tactics too much to wish her a long walk and a short cliff.
But give me time.COLLAPSE