Page 90 of Big D!ck Energy

His praise was filthy and perfect. It wrapped around me, a dark, silken rope pulling me deeper into the act. I relaxed my throat, taking him deeper on the next downstroke until my nose was buried in the crisp hair at his base. I held there, swallowing around him, and felt his entire body bow taut as a wire.

He tugged my hair, pulling me off him with a wet, obscene sound. A string of saliva connected my lips to his glistening tip.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his chest heaving.

I looked up, my eyes blurry, my lips swollen and slick.

His smile widened. “Good. Now show me.”

A fierce, feminine pride surged through me. He wasn't just using me; he was giving himself to me in this raw, vulnerable state. He was letting me claim him back. I locked my eyes on his, held his gaze, and took him back into my mouth with a deep, hungry suction that made his abs clench.

I worshipped him then. With my lips, my tongue, the hollows of my cheeks. I sucked him with a fervor that bordered on desperation, lapping at the salty drops that beaded at his tip, humming with pleasure at the way his grip on my hair tightened, at the way his breaths became ragged, broken gasps.

“I'm going to come down that tight throat,” he warned, his voice strangled. “I'm going to fill you up. Mark you from the inside. You want that? You want to swallow every drop? To know you did this? That you made me lose control?”

I couldn't speak. I just moaned, the sound vibrating around him, and doubled my efforts. My hand moved faster, and my mouth sucked harder.

His thighs trembled as a string of curses, low and reverent and filthy, fell from his lips. “That's it... just like that... your mouth is a fucking dream... my dream... mine...”

The hand in my hair became an iron clamp, holding me in place as his hips jerked off the seat.

“Swallow it all,” he commanded, his voice cracking. “Take it. Take every last drop of me.”

The first pulse hit the back of my throat, hot and bitter. I swallowed instinctively, milking him with my throat muscles. The second was stronger, a flood of salt and heat that I greedily drank down. He groaned, a long, shattered sound, as his release poured into me, each throb of his cock a testament to his surrender.

I kept my mouth on him, working him through the last tremors, until he was spent and sensitive, his grip in my hair softening to a caress.

Slowly, gently, I released him. He was still half-hard, glistening with my saliva and his release. I sat back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, my chest heaving. The taste of him, of us, was stark on my tongue.

He looked wrecked. His suit was rumpled, his hair a disaster, his eyes glassy with spent passion. He reached for me, his hand shaking as he cupped my cheek.

“Come here,” he breathed, pulling me up from the floor and into his lap. He held me close, his face buried in my hair, his breathing still ragged. “You’re incredible, perfect…” He couldn't finish. He just held me, his body trembling against mine.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, and a dark smile tugged at his lips. “You took your claim, didn't you?”

I nodded, unable to speak, the taste of him still heavy in my mouth.

His smile widened as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky whisper against my ear. “Good. Now we're even.”

CHAPTER 28

MIC DROP

DALLAS

The podcast studio was smaller than I'd expected.

When Davina described her recording space, I'd pictured sleek and corporate vibes, with glass walls, expensive sound equipment, maybe one of those “ON AIR” signs that lit up in dramatic red. Instead, I found myself standing in the complete opposite. It was an organized mess wrapped in soundproofing foam.

The studio room was maybe twelve by fifteen feet with acoustic panels in varying shades of pink, white, and gray covering the walls. The rest of the room was set up like a very stylish, comfortable living room. A coffee table and three large chairs with throw pillows. A massive desk dominated the front of the space, with two professional microphones, a mixing board, and approximately seven thousand cords snaking toward outlets hidden behind more foam.

White fairy lights were strung along the ceiling, casting everything in a warm, almost intimate glow that I suspected looked fantastic on camera.

“Don't touch that.” Davina barked as I examined a vintage microphone displayed on a shelf.

“I wasn't going to touch it.”

“You were definitely going to touch it.” She didn't look up from the tablet she was scrolling through, but I could hear the smile in her voice.