25. Fallon

Fallon

The moment Brett parts me and presses his tongue to my clit, I finally understand the hype around oral sex.

When I realized what he was planning to do, something in my stomach froze up, my body becoming rigid. How do you tell a guy that oral sex won't work on you? That he can go down on you for as long as he wants—or as short as he wants, based on historical evidence—and you'll have to pretend to like it, writhing around until he eventually gets tired, or you fake an orgasm to make him feel better?

But I don't have to tell Brett that. First, because he doesn't let me weakly protest or mutter, No, it's okay, you don't have to —he just grabs my thighs and ass and hauls me to the edge of the bed, making my stomach flutter then flip when he presses his tongue to me, a gasp ripping out of my throat at the heat, the contact, the slick feeling of his mouth against my clit.

And then, he groans .

My eyes shut, and my body develops a mind of its own, back arching, waves of pleasure rolling through me with that breathless, helpless feeling like being tickled as a kid. Brett acts like a starving man, pressing his face into me, groaning against me, the rumbles of that moving through my body and amplifying the pleasure.

Maybe the truth is not that oral sex doesn't work for me. Maybe I've just never been with a man who actually enjoyed going down on me. Who understood how to touch a woman. To taste a woman. Brett's voice plays in my head again and I nearly moan at the recent memory: I'm going to taste you, Fallon.

"Fuck," I gasp. Then blush when I realize I've said that out loud, feeling cringey for using that word during sex. But Brett doesn't care, and, in fact, it only seems to spur him on, his chin moving faster, his tongue pressing into me. My heels dig into the mattress, and when I start to scoot away, he grabs my hips, holding me in place.

"Brett," I pant, and he groans again, but doesn't pull away. "Brett—I'm going to—I'm going to—"

I feel completely out of control, all composure gone, all semblance of decorum out the window. I'm completely naked and spread out on his bed, and he's sliding a finger inside me as I grind my hips against his face, cresting what very well might be the best orgasm of my life.

Words and sounds come out of me that I've never made before, and Brett continues licking and lapping, riding out the waves of pleasure, humming his satisfaction as I come undone, gripping the sheets and nearly sobbing with relief.

He loosens his grip on me, making large, slow circles with his tongue, like he's ensuring I enjoy every last millisecond of the orgasm. I realize he's done this before, probably many times, and I want to write a thank you note to whomever taught him to listen to a climax like this.

When my body goes boneless, relaxing against the mattress, Brett lingers near my hips, kissing my thighs and running his hand up and down my leg.

Finally, when my breathing has evened out, he looks up at me, hair falling into his eyes, and says, "Are you okay?"

"Okay?" I breathe, laughing and putting a hand to my forehead. " Yes , Brett, I'm—that was—"

"Good." He grins at me and kisses my thigh again. My body feels like Jell-O salad, a loose combination of unstable parts. "I'll be right back."

I watch him walk to the bathroom, still wearing his dress pants and shirt, which is unbuttoned and showing his broad chest. Still trembling slightly, I hear the water run and watch as he comes walking out, patting his face with a towel.

"Mouthwash," he chuckles, smiling as he nears the bed. "So I can kiss you again."

"Oh," I say, that thoughtful touch breaking through my post-orgasm haze and bringing me back to reality, to the present moment. I'm sprawled out on his bed, completely naked, the cool air making my nipples hard, and he's staring down at me.

I can see his length pressing against the fabric of his pants, and watch as he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

My brain screams at me to crawl under the duvet, to cover myself, but I don't have time to get self-conscious again, because Brett is dropping his pants and crawling over me, notching his knee between my thighs.

He's impossibly gorgeous—which makes sense. When he's over me, I get a real sense of the sheer difference in our bodies, and I feel small. I'm not a short woman, or skinny by any means, but Brett makes me feel like he could hold me in the palm of his hand.

Seamlessly, he shifts us further up the bed and yanks a pillow down, tucking it under my hair and pulling a few errant hairs from my face, trailing his lips down my neck and to my chest.

"Hey," I breathe, burying my hands in his hair and tugging lightly. "Do you—"

"Do that again," he says, voice husky, and I freeze, registering what he's said. When I tug on his hair, he moans, letting his head loll and casually taking one of my nipples into his mouth.

"Oh my god," I gasp, arching into him, fingers tightening their hold in his hair. He groans low in the back of his throat, and I can feel his length against my hip, feel him rocking forward, searching for that pressure.

With one quick flush over my body, all my thoughts are replaced with one thing: I want him inside me. Immediately.

Him going down on me and the earth-shattering orgasm and his dark eyes meeting mine had distracted me from the thing that's now wedged between us. My entire world tightens to a tiny circle, and it only includes his dick and my legs, shifting, trying to move so instead of his knee pressing against my core, it's his hips, his cock sliding into me.

"Stop moving around," he murmurs against my collarbone, chuckling when I try to move my hips again, shift him so he can drive into me. I'm panting with the effort, and, to my surprise, I start to laugh. Brett laughs, too, meeting my eyes and clearly seeing what I'm trying to do.

This feels ridiculous, to want someone so much that I'm reduced to practically begging for him. But I can't help it—I feel the wanting like a sob in the back of my throat. Like I'm a child on the edge of a tantrum, certain that the fate of my world rests in whether or not I get to have him.

"Please," I whisper, surprised at how husky my voice is, and Brett stops laughing, his eyes going dark, his jaw ticking. It sends another wave of prickling awareness through me. He's goofy, and he's kind, and he looks like he wants to fuck my brains out.

I wait, totally still, as he shifts, reaching a hand down to part my thighs so he can slip between them. When I let out a sound at the feeling of him there, so close to my entrance but not inside me, Brett surges forward, catching that sound in his mouth as he kisses me, hard, his tongue providing delicious friction, his chin jutting into mine. He kisses like breathing, and it makes my entire body wild. My hands fly to his hair again, tugging gently, and he notches himself at my entrance.

My heartbeat is in my throat. Brett has one hand braced on my hip, so I can't buck up under him and take him, so he's in complete control of how deep he goes.

" Please ," I whisper again, and he looks up, meeting my eyes as he starts to slide—at a glacier's pace—inside me, like he's afraid he might hurt me. Like he might be too much.

But I'm warm and loose and the only thing I want is to feel all of him, so I do the only thing I can think to do—I pull his hair. Hard.

It delivers the desired effect. He groans and thrusts forward, burying himself in me. The pressure is full and thick and stretches me out, and the next time he draws back and thrusts in again, I let my head drop back, noises and gasps of pleasure rolling out of me.

Brett falls into an easy rhythm, his lips frantically working over me as he drives in again and again. It feels like a hand-stacking game, like we're each climbing over the other to see who can make the other crazier.

He sucks my nipple into his mouth and drags his teeth across it. I tug his head back and reach up, kissing his throat. He puts a hand, whisper light, over my throat, making my face and chest flush an even darker red when I realize I like it.

I drag my nails down his back.

Then, when he reaches down, grabbing my hips and tipping them up so he can push even deeper inside me, I think he's done what no other man has ever accomplished—he hits my g-spot.

The pleasure is like a blinding light ripping through my body, and I can't even think, let alone form the words faster and harder , but Brett must receive them telepathically, because he grips my thighs and does just that, chasing the beat and driving me up the side of a mountain, to the top of a roller coaster, to a precipice I've never reached before.

When I orgasm this time, it feels like drowning. Like breaking the surface of the water with no air in your lungs. I'm gasping for Brett, hands in his hair, wanting him on every part of my body. I grab his head and force it down to my nipple, then up to my neck, then I'm crying out again and again.

My frantic touching, moaning, pleading must be enough for him, because as I come down the other side of my orgasm, he lets out a low noise, body shuddering as he comes inside me, that warm, loose liquid spilling out of me and onto his sheets.

It's at that moment that I realize we didn't use a condom—I never even thought about it.

I could panic and ruminate on how irresponsible that is. I could push away from him and immediately drive to the store to get Plan B, hands shaking, cheeks flushing under the weight of the disapproving clerk's gaze.

But I don't. For once, I don't want to chase down the worst-case scenario.

Instead, I just want to stay here with Brett, who's breathing hard and crawling up my body. He leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead, his eyes searching mine.

In an instant, I think about what he said earlier: There's no reason why we both shouldn't get to feel good.

It's true. I should get to feel good. And this sex with Brett is the best I've felt in a long time. But there's something about it—the forehead kissing, the tender way he holds me, that makes it feel like it's more about physical pleasure.

I force those thoughts from my head.

"I should go clean up," I say, voice weak, and in the next moment, Brett is reaching down, scooping me up, and carrying me into the bathroom as I giggle into his chest. He cranks the rain shower on and settles his hands on my hips, fixing me with another hungry look and walking me backwards into the water.