Page 112 of Big Dick Energy

His grin was wicked. “Now come on. I promised to show you my favorite part of the arena.”

“Is it a real place, or is this a euphemism?”

“It's my private dressing room.” He pulled me down the hallway, his hand warm and certain around mine. “Whether it becomes a euphemism is entirely up to you.”

It became a euphemism.

“Kiss me,” I said the moment we were behind the closed doors of his dressing room.

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, low and desperate against the roar of the crowd still echoing in the hallway outside.

Dallas didn’t hesitate. His mouth crashed down on mine, swallowing my gasp, his hands already framing my face. The door to his private dressing room clicked shut behind us, muffling the distant chaos of the arena into a dull, pulsating hum. Finally, quiet.

Finally, us.

He tasted like victory and sweat and the faint, sharp tang of adrenaline. I loved that taste. I didn’t care that his bare chest was slick with it, that my hands slid over the hard planes of his pecs and came away damp. I wanted to drink him in.

His tongue pushed past my lips, a commanding, possessive invasion that made my knees buckle. My back hit the door with a soft thud, and he pressed his entire body against me, pinning me there. One hand slid from my face down my side, his calloused fingers scraping over the thin fabric of my dress before coming to rest on my hip, gripping me hard.

My head spun, oxygen a distant memory. Every nerve ending was on fire, screaming only for him.

He broke the kiss, both of us panting, our foreheads pressed together.

“You were incredible out there,” I breathed, my voice ragged.

A wicked grin spread across his face. “You haven’t seen incredible yet, Mrs. Dodger.”

In one fluid motion, he spun me around. My palms flattened against the cool wood of the door as his hands found the zipper at the back of my dress. He tugged it down with a sharp, purposeful rasp, the sound obscenely loud in the small room. The fabric loosened, and he pushed it from my shoulders, letting it pool at my feet in a whisper of silk. The cool air hit my heated skin, pebbling my nipples beneath my lace bra.

His hands slid around my waist, pulling me back against the solid heat of him. I could feel the hard ridge of his cock, still confined in his ridiculous spandex shorts, pressed against the swell of my ass.

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmured into my neck, his lips tracing the sensitive skin below my ear. His fingers skimmed up my stomach, cupping my breasts, and he pinched my nipples through the thin lace, rolling them between his fingers until they were tight, aching buds. I chased his touch, a helpless moan escaping me.

He unhooked my bra, tossing it aside. His hands found my hips again, turning me. “Bend over the table, Davina.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a command, delivered in that low, gravelly tone that sent a fresh jolt of liquid heat straight to my core. I obeyed, bending forward at the waist, my upper body resting on the cool, laminated surface. The position left me completely exposed to him and throbbing with anticipation.

I felt his hands on my ankles, pushing my feet apart, widening my stance until I was stretched open for him. My breath hitched. This was it. This was the moment the frustration of the night, the sting of that woman’s words, melted away into pure, raw sensation.

Then I felt his heat leave my skin. I heard the rustle of his kneepads hitting the floor. A shiver of anticipation raced down my spine.

His hands settled on my hips, holding me in place. Then I felt it… The hot, open-mouthed kiss pressed against the inside of my thigh. I jumped at the contact, a choked sound catching in my throat. He did it again, higher this time, his stubble a delicious rasp against my sensitive skin.

“Dallas…” His name was a plea.

His answer was to lean in and drag his tongue through my soaked flesh in one long, slow lick.

I cried out, my fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth table. Oh, God. The sensation was electric, a direct line of pleasure that shattered every thought in my head. He did it again, slower this time, savoring me, his tongue exploring every fold, every hidden part of me with a focused intensity that left me trembling.

Then his fingers joined the feast. One thick digit pushed into my pussy without warning, curling inside me, finding a spot that made my vision whiten at the edges. I gasped, pushing back against his hand, needing more, needing him deeper. He added a second finger, stretching me, filling me, his palm grinding against my clit with every thrust.

Just as a fresh wave of pleasure began to crest, I felt the wet, insistent press of his thumb against my tight hole. Circling. Pressing. My eyes flew open, a strangled protest forming on my lips. But before I could utter a sound, he pushed. Just a little. A gentle, persistent invasion that sent a shocking, forbidden thrill straight through me.

He was everywhere. His tongue lapping at my clit, his fingers plunging deep into my pussy, his thumb working my ass in tiny, perfect circles. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, too much and not enough, building a pressure inside me I knew I couldn’t contain. My moans were constant now, ragged and broken, muffled into the crook of my arm. I was biting my lip, trying to hold it in, to keep some semblance of control in a room that felt like it was spinning.

He stopped. Just for a second. The loss was a physical pain.

“Don’t you dare hold back,” he growled, his voice rough against my wet skin. “I want to hear you. I want everyone to know what I’m doing to my wife. Now scream for me, baby.”