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He looks up at me as I toy with him.
I keep one hand on his shoulder. I let the other curl around his neck.
"Fuck, baby." Jackson's voice drops to a demanding tone. "Are you using me to come?"
"If I am?"
"Bad girl," he purrs. It's the same inflection as the dancer, but it's all different on him.
It's a compliment and a command and a dare, and I want all of it.
I look down at him.
I let my eyes flutter closed.
I bring my lips to his lips. After all, we only bet on him touching my chest. Not on kissing.
We can kiss.
My tongue slips into his mouth and dances with his.
He kisses back a little harder, like he's claiming some part of me.
We move like that as I roll over him again and again, the tension in my sex winding tighter and tighter.
Until I'm there.
Fuck.
I rock through my orgasm, groaning against his lips, using him exactly how I need him.
I pull back with a sigh.
He looks up at me for a long second, then he presses his palm to my mid-back, and he brings my chest to his mouth.
He takes my nipple between his lips, and he toys with me. Soft suction. Then harder.
A slow flick.
A faster one.
Up and down again and again.
Only his mouth.
No hands.
I squirm in his lap, rocking against him, trying to contain the bliss. There. I’m already close again. And he’s still there, hard in my lap.
I rock against him.
His hand goes to my chest.
My entire body sings with bliss.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Daph.”
“I win.”
