Make Me Sin (17 page)

It’s the first time he’s called me baby. For some unthinkable reason, it makes me so wet and desperate, I moan again, grinding my pelvis against his.

It’s that moan that finally breaks through his resistance. With a snarled oath, he pushes me onto my back, rips my boy shorts off my body, and buries his face between my legs.

I cry out, delirious, writhing as he grips my ass in his hands and sucks hard where I most need it. Every time I make a sound of pleasure, he makes a low noise in his throat that sends a pulse of vibration through my core. It makes me moan louder, which makes him suck harder. He slides two fingers inside me and I buck, crying out. I quickly build to a peak so hot and bright my entire body bows. My back lifts off the bed. My hands, clenched in his hair, shake.

In what feels like a nuclear detonation, I come. His name rips from my lips in a long, wavering scream.

Upstairs, my neighbor pounds on the wall, shouting for me to shut up.

Panting, I collapse against the mattress. The entire process from nipple flick to orgasm has taken approximately thirty seconds.

He crawls up my body, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me, deep and hard. I taste myself on him and nearly come again.

“Off!” I claw at the waistband of his jeans. I want him inside me so badly I can’t wait
one second longer
.

Unfortunately, I’ll be waiting a hell of a lot longer than one second, because A.J. says, “No.”

I freeze, hoping I’ve misheard him. “Excuse me?”

“I said no.”

My heart stalls, then reboots with a painful thud. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Chloe—”

“You have GOT to be KIDDING!” I try pushing at the mountains of his shoulders, but he doesn’t budge. He rises up on his elbows, and pins my wrists to the pillow above my head.

“Listen to me.”

I can already hear the excuses in his voice, all the
I’m so sorry
s and the
It’s for the best
s. I groan, turn my face away, and squeeze shut my eyes.

“I already told you I wouldn’t—”

“You
jer
k
! What is this to you, some kind of game? Do you think this is funny, making me beg you for it? Watching me lose control and be completely pathetic—is that what gets you off?”

“Yes, watching you lose control gets me off! So does
listening
to you lose control, and hearing that perfect mouth tell me all the filthy things you want, and tasting your beautiful sweet pussy, and hearing you beg for my cock! It
all
gets me off and it’s taking every fucking crumb of self-control I have not to bury myself balls-deep inside you
right now
!”

He roars the last part into my face. I lie there panting and livid under him, my eyes filling with tears.

“Then tell me why not. You’ve said you won’t, but you haven’t said why not. At least give me that.”

He closes his eyes and drops his forehead to my shoulder. “Because you can’t be mine. You can never be mine. And if I fuck you, baby, you’ll be mine forever.”

There’s pain in his voice, pain, longing, and sorrow. I turn my head, press my lips to his temple. “What if I want to be yours?”

He shakes his head. “I told you. I’m not that selfish.”

I whisper, “Please, A.J. Please help me understand. I don’t understand.”

Instead of answering, he rolls to his back and flips me on top of him, so my naked body is flush against his. He tucks my head into the crook of his neck, cradling it with one big hand, and smooths the other hand over my hair. He begins to rub my back, gently, his palm warm and rough against my skin.

I exhale, shuddering. He’s not going to tell me anything more. He’s given all he’s going to give.

“I should tell you to leave.”

His deep inhalation makes his chest rise beneath my cheek. “You don’t want me to leave. And I wouldn’t, anyway.”

My nose is pressed against the tattoos of the crosses on his neck. I close my eyes to block the sight of them, because I know I’ll never find out what they mean. I’ve come up against the brick wall of A.J.’s will, reached the sheer cliff of his sharing. There will be nothing beyond what I already have.

As he pets and strokes my naked back, his hands so tender and cherishing, somehow I begin to relax. The steady beat of his heart against mine soothes me, as does his breathing, the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his strong chest. I’m more confused than ever, but, lying in his arms, I still feel safe.

I sigh, wind my arms around his shoulders, and snuggle closer to his body, as close as I can get.

He presses his lips against my hair. So, so quietly, he says, “You make me think there might be a God after all.”

My face crumples. My heart feels like someone is stabbing it over and over with scissors. “I thought I made you want to die.”

His hand drops to my bottom, and he squeezes. “Well, this ass
could
kill a man.”

I raise my head and look at him. His face is solemn, but his eyes are sparkling. He’s making a joke.

“Oh, it’s time for funny A.J. to come out and play? Thanks for the heads-up. Let me just look around for my neck brace because I’ve got a nasty case of whiplash from all your prior mood swings.”

He grins. “I love it when you give me shit.”

“Really? Because I hate it when you give
me
shit.”

His amused look turns smoldering. “Don’t lie to me. You love it just as much as I do.”

That heated stare of his sets off fireworks in my body. It’s as if my hormones are just waiting around for him to do something sexy, and the minute he does, they all leap to their feet and run around like kindergartners on a sugar high.

He firmly cups my jaw in his hand and growls, “Look at that fucking look you’re giving me. How am I supposed to maintain my sanity when the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met is staring at me with big eyes that beg, ‘Please fuck me’?”

The most beautiful woman he’s ever met.

My hormones graduate from kindergarten and go straight to college, where they throw a toga party of epic proportions and burn down the dorm.

I moisten my lips. A.J. watches the motion of my tongue, and I feel his heartbeat kick up a notch. I also notice that his erection hasn’t flagged at all since he arrived. His mind might not be on board with whatever’s happening between us, but his body definitely is.

And oh, do I have plans for that body.

“Thank you for the compliment. I’ll assume that’s a rhetorical question. But I do have an idea.”

He watches me warily, his hand still firm around my jaw.

“How exactly would you define fucking?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said you’d never fuck me. But you just went down on me, and I’m lying here butt naked on top of you, so I’m trying to get a better grasp of the exact parameters of our little . . . situation.”

One side of his mouth curves upward. His lids lower so his eyes are practically slits. “You trying to negotiate with me, Princess?”

I wrinkle my nose. The word “negotiate” makes me feel a little gross, especially in light of how his dates usually begin.

“No. I’m trying to determine if this, for instance, is allowed.” I press my lips against his, softly, no tongue.

He watches me from beneath his lowered lids. “That’s allowed.” His voice is husky. His hand drifts down from my jaw to my neck. For some reason, I find his light grip around my throat unbearably sexy.

“Okay. And this?” I kiss him again, but this time suck his lower lip into my mouth. He doesn’t resist, so I kiss him deeper, exploring his mouth with my tongue. His fingers tighten around my neck.

“That’s allowed, too,” he breathes when I pull away and look at him.

I nod. Without breaking eye contact with him, I lower my head and press a kiss to his chest. It’s feather light, right above his heart. I wait for his answer, my heart beginning to pound.

“Allowed.” He swallows. His voice is getting lower and lower.

Trying not to make any sudden moves, I ease myself down his body a foot or so, careful to balance my weight on my hands on the mattress on either side of his waist. As I move, my breasts skim against his chest. He inhales sharply, and I freeze.

He doesn’t do anything, so I press my lips to his abdomen. It’s as hard as rock, without an ounce of fat, tattooed and so sexy I just want to bite it. In fact, I want to sink my teeth into his biceps, his shoulders, his thighs,
everywhere
. I’m starving for him. I want to gobble him up. I want to taste every part of his body, every inch of his skin.

I lick a languid circle around his belly button, dip my tongue into the little depression, and suck.

Beneath my mouth, his muscles contract, quivering. His hands settle on either side of my head. They’re trembling. I fall still, waiting.

After a moment, he whispers, “Allowed.”

The feeling of power that surges through me is heady. When I glance up, he’s staring at me, eyes hooded. All the humor is gone. Now there’s only need.

Holding his gaze, I move my lips to a spot about half an inch above the waistband of his jeans. I press my mouth to his skin. His lips part, but he doesn’t make a sound. So, still looking into his eyes, I kiss a soft, slow path right down to the denim, then slide my tongue just under the waistband.

He’s frozen. I’m not even sure if he’s breathing.

I lay my hand over the bulge in his jeans. Slowly, I stroke my hand up and down its twitching, hard length. I move my mouth to the pulsing crown at its tip, and suck, right through the denim.

A.J.’s groan is ragged.

“Allowed?” I ask, watching him. I give his erection a squeeze, and the muscles in his stomach contract.

“Chloe, fuck, Princess—”

“Say yes, A.J.,” I softly demand, rubbing my hand up and down, squeezing and stroking.

He lies there, tense, panting, the occasional moan working from his throat as I continue my torture. But I won’t go any further without his permission. I won’t push him more than this.

He has to ask me for it.

He drops his head against the pillow, closes his eyes, and utters a soft, surrendering cry. “Yes
please
God
please
Chloe give me your mouth baby I need you so fucking bad—”

I rip open the fly of his jeans, and he’s free.

H
is cock springs out into my hands. I gasp, astonished at the size, at how beautiful it is.

It’s a masterpiece. It deserves a painting, or at least a commemorative statue carved in marble, set out in a public square. If I wasn’t so stricken by lust, I’d want to grab a pencil and paper and sketch it, that’s how fantastic I think it is.

I wrap a hand around the thick base. I wrap the other hand above the first. Even with two fists around it, there’s still plenty of bare acreage on this baby. With a moan, I pounce on it. I take the crown into my mouth and suck.

The sound A.J. makes is so erotic I suck harder.

He shudders. His hips start to move. He says my name, his hands reaching for my head. His fingers settle lightly against my face, and he pushes my hair aside so he can watch me.

I take him as far into my throat as I can without gagging. Both my hands stroke him as he flexes his hips up and down, slowly fucking my mouth. His hips start to move faster. His eyes are glazed with lust and pleasure. He’s making soft, helpless moans, watching my mouth and hands, my face.

He whispers, “You’re so beautiful. My beautiful little songbird. My angel.”

Thrilled by his words, I hum, and it makes him groan.

His eyes slide shut. His chest heaves as he pants, and he starts to buck against my hands and mouth. He’s close already.

I keep one hand wrapped around him, but take the other and gently cup his balls. They’re heavy in my palm, velvet soft. I fondle them as I continue to suck his head and shaft, my hand slipping up and down his throbbing length, squeezing and stroking.

His hands tighten on either side of my head. He hisses, “Fuck baby yes baby feels so goddamn
good
.”

I open my throat and slide his cock as far down it as it can go, which is about half of his length. His entire body stiffens. He jerks and comes into my mouth, groaning and swearing, roaring like an animal.

The neighbors upstairs pound on the wall again.

He’s still coming hard, grunting and twitching, his breath hissing in and out between his clenched teeth, all the muscles of his abdomen and arms flexed, his head tipped back into the pillow. I watch him, euphoric, feeling powerful and ridiculously self-satisfied and accomplished, as if I’ve just invented cold fusion or facilitated world peace.

Most of all, I feel incredibly
feminine
. I’ve just watched the sexiest man alive fall apart in my hands, and I want to purr in satisfaction.

A.J. collapses against the mattress as if he’s been flung there by some giant invisible hand. I swallow—something I’ve admittedly not been too keen on in the past but at the moment I
adore
—and swallow again, then gently lick him clean, lapping up his salty goodness.

“You taste like hazelnuts.”

His laugh is ragged. “You like hazelnuts, Princess?”

“I
love
them. They’re my new favorite food.”

His grin fades. He quickly grows serious, watching me lovingly clean every drop of what he’s given me off his shaft, his crown, my hands. Somehow there are even a few splatters on his abdomen, and I lick those off like a kitten with a bowl of cream.

I feel like Cleopatra. I feel like Helen of Troy. I feel like the most beautiful, sexy woman who ever walked the earth. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m on my knees, in the position I’m in, but right now this feels like the most powerful position in the world.

Then I suffer a little twinge of paranoia. My tongue falters. My hands fall still.

A.J. is used to having professionals do what I just did. Professionals with vastly more experience than I have in the area.

He doesn’t miss my sudden hesitation. “What’s wrong?”

“Was that . . . did I . . . um . . .”

It takes him a nanosecond to catch my drift. He grabs my arms, hauls me up his body, positions me on top of him, and starts to chuckle softly into my ear. “Are you asking if it was good for me, too?”

I hide my face in his neck. “Maybe. But don’t answer unless the answer is yes.”

He gives me a squeeze, laughing now. “Princess, it was fucking
epic
. That blow job was a gold medal winner. I’ll dream about it every night for the rest of my life.”

Grinning, I look up at him. His eyes shine, amber and gilt in the shadows, bright beneath the dark chocolate curve of his lashes. His hair is mussed and his smile is soft, and he’s so handsome it hurts. My breath hitches, and my heart does this odd thing where it expands and contracts at the same time. I reach up and press my hand against his cheek.

“I’d like to give you one of those every night for the rest of
my
life.”

His laugh dies in his throat. His lips part, his brows draw together, the expression in his eyes turns haunted.

“No,” I whisper, recognizing that look. “Stay with me. Don’t go back into the dark.”

He closes his eyes. A low, soft sound of despair escapes his lips. Gathering me closer, he presses his lips to my forehead, and leaves them there.

Slowly, with as much gentle loving as I can put into a touch, I run my fingers over his chest, his biceps, his tense, corded forearm. I don’t know what to say, or if there’s even anything that could be said to help him, to take away whatever pain he’s so obviously in, so I try to convey with my touch that he’s safe with me. That I know he’s hurting, and, though I don’t know why, I’m here for him.

With all my heart, I want to be what makes him feel better. I want him to feel as safe with me as I do with him.

Looking up at the ceiling, A.J. blows out a hard breath. I keep silently stroking his skin, listening to his jagged heartbeat, trying to soothe him. I try not to think of anything else, of what might happen next, of what tomorrow will bring. I told him I’d take only one night, if that’s all he was willing to give, and I meant it.

At the time I meant it. Now, only a short while later, getting only one night with him seems like an impossibly cruel joke.

But I won’t think about it. I’m here, he’s here, right now we’re both safe in the circle of each other’s arms.

The sigh he heaves sounds resigned. When I look up at him, he’s staring down at me with all the light extinguished in his eyes.

“You can’t go now,” I beg, terrified he’s leaving.

“No, angel, I can’t. That’s the problem.”

Without another word, he rolls me to my side and curls up behind me. Within minutes, he’s sleeping deeply, as if he’s been set free. I lie awake in the dark, listening to him breathe.

W
hen the alarm goes off in the morning, A.J. is gone. On the pillow next to mine lies an origami sculpture. Not a bird this time.

A heart.

When I pick it up and cup it in my palms, it fans open like it’s alive. It’s blood red, the white copy paper saturated with ink from the fat red Sharpie sitting out on my desk. I lift it to my nose, inhaling the pungent, chemical smell.

I wonder how long it took him to make. I wonder if he watched me sleeping while he made it. I wonder what he thought about while he worked, folding, creating, his fingers deft and precise.

Outside my bedroom window a nightingale begins to sing, and my eyes fill with tears.

I can’t remember ever feeling this happy.