Page 198 of A Million To Fall

Boston moans, a choked sound high in his throat. It turns me on so much. Already the spot between my thighs is aching for him. But I keep my pace teasing, dragging it out. My hand joins in, stroking him with a slight twist on the downward motion while I suck. Harder this time. His hips buck and I pull away, just long enough for his body to twitch with the absence of touch.

Then I start again. Sucking, stroking, licking, twisting.

“Stormy…” he gasps.

His one good hand finds my hair, but once again he doesn’t push. He gently guides my movements, giving me every ounce of control because he knows what it means to have it taken away.

So I reward that trust.

I flatten my tongue along his length, slow and firm, and taste the first salty bead of pre-cum. I hum around him, relishing that raw, helpful sound escaping him. It makes my thighs clench.

“I’m close,” he warns, already breathless.

I release him with a wet pop, blinking up at him. “You don’t get to come yet.”

He groans and lets his head thunk softly back against the wall, surrendering to me. I wait a fraction of a second, his cock twitching in anticipation. Then I take him again, starting even slower. Crueler.

Each time I feel him spiral toward the edge, I pull back, lips and hands leaving him cold, edging him all the way to the brink only to let up again. I do it once, twice, three times. By the fourth time, he’s cursing under his breath, muttering my name like it’s both a plea and a warning. I can feel how badly he wants to come. And I want to give it to him just as bad.

But not yet.

Instead, I stand. Boston’s trembling, every muscle in his body drawn tight, his eyes half-lidded, glassy with need. He’s rock-hard, leaking at the tip, and so sensitive he sucks in a sharp breath when my fingers graze his silky, hot skin.

“Skye…” he rasps. “Please.”

I back up to the counter, eyes locked on his, and push myself up onto it, the surface cool against my heated thighs. I brace my hands behind me and spread my legs slowly in silent invitation. God, I’m aching for him.

Boston’s eyes drop exactly where I knew they would.

“Fuck,” he groans. “I’m still not convinced I didn’t die and go to heaven.” He steps between my legs, his hand sliding up my thigh to my hip.

I cross my ankles behind his waist and pull him in. Then his mouth is on mine, his tongue tracing mine in slow, possessive strokes. His body presses forward, and I feel his hardness nudge against me, thick and warm.

“Go slow,” I whisper against his lips. “Let me savor you.”

His forehead drops to mine and he sinks into me with one slow thrust. My whole body arches, clenching, stretching around him, then yielding to his size. The fullness is overwhelming and, god, so perfect. He pulls me forward, entering me deeper still. My ass teeters on the edge of the counter, but I don’t care. I can barely breathe.

“Holy fuck,” Boston grits, his voice strangled. “You feel… Jesus, Skye.”

He pushes as far as he can go—as much as I can take him—then stills, breath trembling, fingers digging into my thigh as he holds himself there.

I open my eyes. God, he’s beautiful. Lips parted, eyes dark with want, the flush high on his cheeks as he tries to hold on to the last shred of rationality. But all I want is for him to let go.

“Move,” I whisper.

And he does.

His hips roll, controlled and sensual, the sound of our bodies colliding slick and delicious. Every thrust is more addictive than the last as Boston worships my body—worships me—from the inside out.

My legs tighten around his waist. “Harder.”

He obliges, driving into me again, deeper, a little rougher now, angling just right, and I cry out, the sound echoing off the tile. My head falls back. My nails dig into his skin. The pressure builds in a dizzying, spiraling climb.

I feel him everywhere. He’s breathing hard into my neck, kissing, biting, panting, his thrusts steady but losing rhythm with every second.

The pleasure in me coils tighter and tighter.

“God, Boss, I’m—” My voice breaks with a gasp.