The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) (5 page)

“What bet?”

“That you couldn’t ignore your phone for thirty minutes.”

A faint flush rises up her chest, and I’m surprised to see the chagrined look that crosses her face. “It used to be worse,” she says. “I’m much better now.”

“You could try harder.”

An eye roll. “Trust me. I am trying.”

“Turn off the phone, Susan.”

Her eyes return to mine. “Why?”

“Because if you check it while we’re messing around, I’m done.”

Her mouth forms a silent O of surprise, then slips into a small smile. “Do you have an itch, Oscar?”

“I think we both do.”

She reaches over and turns off the phone, letting me watch as it powers down. The moment’s semi-broken when she adds, “I can’t keep it off for long. I’m not on call today, but you never know.”

“How long do you think this will take?”

“Five minutes?” she tries hopefully.

I shake my head and laugh. “Susan.”

“Fine,” she says. “Seven, tops.”

“Stop talking and get over here.”

For the first time ever, she looks slightly hesitant, though she doesn’t pause when she stands and wipes her palms on the sides of her shorts before approaching. I nod at my lap and she slowly straddles my thighs, lowering herself to a sitting position. I spread my legs a little, parting hers, and her breath hitches, eyes locked on mine. I didn’t take enough time to look at her up close on Wednesday, hadn’t savored this moment. The moment before we begin.

I hadn’t touched her enough, then, either. And now I hold her gaze as I lower my hands to her knees and slide them upward, slow enough that I think we’re both wishing I’d move faster. But I can’t. I won’t. Her skin is hot and smooth beneath my callused palms, and I hold the eye contact when I reach the top of her legs and my fingertips slip beneath the edge of her shorts, thumbs skating along the junction of her thigh and torso, feeling the seam of her panties, the heat radiating from her pussy.

Susan pulls off her shirt to reveal a white lace bra, the shadow of her nipples clearly visible. I groan and dip my head, lifting one breast to my mouth, tongue swirling over the lace before my lips close around the tight peak, sucking hard. She makes a strangled, pleased sound and my cock jumps, the head bumping right between her legs, torturing us both with the proximity and the fabric barriers.

“Oz...” she whispers, finally using the right name. “More. Please.” Her hands are on the back of my head, my neck, exerting no small amount of pressure as she asks for what she wants. I feel the tips of her short nails scoring my flesh and suck harder, using my free hand to mimic the pull on her other breast.

“Yes, yes,” she mumbles, her fingers releasing me long enough to reach behind and unclasp her bra, the flimsy device tumbling into her lap. I curse and pull away so I can look at her, one tit wet with my saliva, the nipple reddened and asking for more. I squeeze her in my hands, wondering how the fuck I got here. How this woman is in my lap, wanting what I want.

I drop my hands to her waist so I can roll her hips over my erection, making us both groan, then Susan presses her tits together and lifts them to my mouth. I suckle one then the other, hearing her moans as she rocks her pelvis against mine, seeking release. She mutters incoherently and stops for a second, rearranging her lower body so she’s riding just one thigh, grinding her pussy against my leg. I can feel the intense heat through the thin layers of material that separate us, hear the strained, gasping breaths as she fights for her climax.

I’m not far behind, and she hasn’t even touched me. Hearing her, smelling her, feeling her, tasting her. It’s embarrassing, but it’s almost enough. Except it’s not. Because when I lift my head to find her mouth again, I see her eyes half open, locked on the table beside me, and I know she’s thinking that if she just gets off, she can get back to her regularly scheduled programming.

I know that look because I’ve seen it on my own face too many times. Messed around with enough women, the sole intention being to just get off then move on. And I don’t want that anymore, and now that I see something I want, I’m not willing to make it that easy for her to forget me.

“Enough,” I say, pushing her off my leg as carefully as I can. She blinks, confused, a blush riding high on her cheeks, eyes glazed.

“What the—I’m not—I didn’t—” She studies my crotch, looking for proof I’d come and that’s why I’m changing things up. But I haven’t. I will, but not yet.

“Get me off,” I tell her.

More blinking, her eyes clearing as the dogged pursuit of orgasm fades, replaced by new understanding. “I beg your pardon?”

“Get me off,” I tell her. “Make me come. However you want. Then I’ll do you. Whatever you need.”

She covers her breasts and looks away, vaguely angry. Then she turns back. “What the fuck, Oscar?”

“You want to rush through this and get back to work?” I counter, standing. She takes a step back, the railing bumping against her back, preventing a retreat. If she looked alarmed or afraid I’d back off, but she doesn’t. She looks annoyed and turned on and a little bit...thrilled.

“I’m not—”

I dip my head and speak into her ear. “You can use your hands or your mouth,” I tell her softly. “But you’d better get started, because you’re not getting off until I do.”

Her lips part and I hear her tremulous inhale. Susan’s not shy. I don’t think what I’m asking offends her. I think not getting what she wants the way she wants it is a new experience for her, and if she’s not up for it, I’ll leave. Because this is what I want.

She studies my face, gauging the intent there, then says, “Kiss me first.”

I bracket her with my arms, hands gripping the wrought iron rail on either side of her waist, and lower my head to kiss her. I don’t mind kissing Susan. It’s like eating chocolate with none of the calories. Her mouth is soft and warm, her tongue following mine when it retreats, showing me she wants this. Wants more.

After a minute I pull away, dragging in breaths through my nose, staring at her. I don’t think she was trying to manipulate or distract me, but in case she was, the look on my face should make it clear. Susan licks her lips delicately, then I feel her fingertips hook under the elastic waistband of my borrowed scrubs, and she slowly kneels at my feet, bringing the pants with her.

She glances up at me from this new position, my cock bobbing next to her cheek, and it’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. Until her pink tongue snakes out and starts at my balls, tracing the vein on the underside of the shaft all the way up to the head to lap up the precome that’s waiting there.
That’s
the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

And this is suicide.

Susan hums thoughtfully as she bobs on my dick, her saliva-slick palm twisting the base of my shaft, her other hand sliding up the inside of my thigh to cup my balls. I feel her everywhere, and when I’ve got enough control I take another look down and see her hard at work, eyes shut, expression serious. As good as it feels in a technical sense, it doesn’t feel like anything else. It’s what I felt on the rooftop that day, step one, step two, step three. Like it’s a job, a duty. A box she has to check to get her own box checked, so to speak. As impersonal as it can be when someone’s got his dick in your mouth.

“Susan,” I say. I want her to look at me. I want to know she’s thinking about me, about this. Not merely anticipating the next part of her plan.

She doesn’t open her eyes. I’m not even sure she hears me.

Very carefully I lower a hand to cup the back of her head, her hair soft and warm from the sun. And just as soon as I think the word “soft,” she’s jerking back hard, one hand gripping my wrist and pulling it away from her head.

“Whoa,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “What’s going on?”

She looks slightly confused, like someone coming out of a trance. “I don’t—Don’t hold my head,” she says.

“I’m sorry. I was trying to get your attention.”

“Why? What do you want?”

We’re having this conversation while she kneels at my feet, my dick out, her bare breasts on display. And she doesn’t know what I want? What the fuck will it take?

Still, all I say is, “Eye contact, Susan. If you don’t mind.”

She inhales, then exhales, visibly calming, then holds my stare as she licks the length of the shaft a few times. “Better?”

I nod, struggling to speak, and watch her fingers wrap around me again. Oh fuck. Why was I complaining? I can’t remember, not when she’s sucking hard and fast, taking me deeper than before, letting the head of my cock bump the back of her throat, making me feel so fucking big.

“Like this,” I mumble, covering her hand with my own, jerking myself off harder. She picks up the rhythm and I reach lower to squeeze my balls, gripping the rail with my free hand so I don’t make the mistake of touching her head. It only takes another minute or two before I know I’m going to spill, and when I’m close I snatch up a few of the napkins from the table and pull out of her mouth, finishing myself with a long, pained groan.

“Jesus,” I mutter, balling up the napkins and tossing them back on the table. “Fuck.”

Susan’s soft chuckle penetrates the fog surrounding my brain and she reaches for her water glass at the same moment I reach for mine. We watch each other as we drink, the same thought sling-shotting between us: what now? The morning’s race and the orgasm mean my legs aren’t up to much, so I sit back down in the chair and beckon her forward, hoping I look like I’m in control and not a fucking rag doll. She arches a brow, replaces the glass on the table and steps into me, hands at her side as I slide her shorts and panties down her legs so she’s completely naked. I see her fingers curl inward, like she’s trying not to cover herself, and I lean in and press my nose into her belly button, inhaling. I can smell her arousal from here, musky and dark, and I want it. I want to see it and taste it and smell it, but I hold back. I tongue her belly button and she scrapes her nails over my skull, then surprises me by straddling my bare thigh and sitting down. She adjusts her position and soon I can feel her wet heat on my leg, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever felt, I swear.

I clutch her head and pull her in for a kiss, plunging my tongue into her mouth the way we both wish I were doing lower down. She moans and sucks me in, hips undulating as she works herself on my leg. It’s nasty and crude, wet and dirty, and I love it. I skim one hand down her back, feeling the fragile ridge of her spine, circling her tailbone then moving lower, sliding my fingers right through her crack. I let her feel me there before I move lower, fingertips sliding between her slippery folds and gently opening her further.

She whimpers and continues to hump my leg, focused and unashamed. She’s holding my head so tightly I can barely move it, so I lean back in the chair as much as I’m able and she follows me, the angle bringing her clit into better contact with my leg. The hand that’s already down there slides over her thigh and digs into the curls covering her pussy, dipping low enough to brush over her clit, making me grin when she gasps into my mouth.

My other hand returns to those gorgeous breasts, bouncing against my chest, and I pinch her nipples carefully, gauging her reactions as I tighten my grip. She purrs and moans, then stiffens when it gets too tight, and I let her go. I break away for air and fasten my lips to her neck, sucking hard, feeling her rapid pulse against my tongue.

“No marks,” she mumbles, pulling on my ear to stop me.

“No marks,” I echo, dropping my head back to watch her. Her eyes are closed this time, her phone and sex plan forgotten, but the look on her face makes something in me lurch in concern. She looks so fucking...intense. Desperate, almost, like she knows this is her one opportunity to get off.

Now that I think about it, she’s rubbing like crazy on my leg, the friction so hot it has to be borderline painful for her. I’m no Casanova but I’ve been with enough women that I’d like to think I know how to get them off, and Susan’s a challenge, but she’s not impossible. I can do this if she’d just let me.

“Susan,” I say, gripping her waist to still her.

It takes a second for the action—and its implications—to set in, and her eyes fly open, outraged.

“Don’t you dare—” she begins, until I slip a hand over her mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” I murmur calmly, uncovering her mouth and nudging her back so I can stand. “I’m going to get you off.
Me
, not you. Understand?”

Her lips move but no words come out, not even when I back her into the table and boost her up, ignoring the line of pain that radiates from my sore wrist. I’m not about to listen to that fucker now. Instead I scoop up the glasses and dirty napkins, tucking them out of the way, and turn back to Susan.

Her chest is rising and falling like she’s the one who ran a race today, but my words appear to have silenced whatever protest she’d been forming, and she stares at me, half mutinous, half needy. I like her this way. I like it when her brows yank together in warning even as I spread her legs and hook my thumbs into her pussy, opening her for my gaze. I like it even more when her jaw drops when I spit right onto the slippery folds, hot from the grinding, and maybe a little too sensitive. Yeah, definitely too sensitive, I think, when I roll her clit under my thumb and she tries to hide a wince.

“Relax,” I say softly, leaning in to nip her lower lip, then lick away the sting. “I’ve got this.”

“You’ve—” She sounds disbelieving. “Oscar, I just—”

“I’m going to get you off now, Susan. And it’s going to feel so fucking good, understand? And you’re not going to do anything but sit there and let me.”

“Where’s the man who got mowed down by a crate of watermelons?” she mumbles. She shakes her head weakly, though what she’s arguing, I don’t know, since my offer sounds pretty damn good.

I laugh and catch her lower lip between my teeth. “Say please,” I order.

“Oh, fuck you,” she replies.

I laugh again. “Susan.”

She’s trying not to laugh with me. “Oscar.”

I push two fingers into her tight pussy and we both groan. Her inner muscles clamp down desperately and I keep my hand still so she can adjust, even if her writhing hips say she doesn’t want to wait any longer. I grip her waist hard in my free hand and catch her eye, a silent warning not to move. She hisses out a breath but manages to stop shifting, her expression growing more and more impatient as I wait. It takes a minute, but eventually I feel the muscles in her thighs slacken and she finally gives in. Trusts me, for now.