Page 72 of The Boyfriend Experience

“No,” she whines, biting my shoulder again. “No.”

I hug her close. My hands gripping her ass so hard, she’ll have bruises tomorrow. My chest pressed into her breasts, relishing the feeling of her softness again the hardness of me.

As slow and soft as it’s been so far with Oaklee, that’s how fast and hard it is now.

I fuck her like the world ends tonight.

I fuck her like we’ll never fuck again.

I fuck her just the way she wants me to.

Her orgasm comes with a scream this time. A primal yell that makes me think of neighbors disturbed. Waking up and turning to each other with questions of, “What was that?”

But then I remember she owns this whole building and no one lives here but her.

So I keep going.

I fuck her till she’s screaming, and moaning, and whining, and begging me to keep going and stop all in the same breath.

She comes all over my dick for the third time tonight.

I come inside her for the third time tonight.

And even when that’s over and I’m sitting down on the stone bench on the other side of the shower, her in my lap, her head on my shoulder, our hearts still beating fast—like that’s the only speed they know how to beat—she says, “Again,” as she slip out of my lap and drops to her knees to take my cock in her hand. Her eyes gazing up at me like I am her god and she is my servant.

And I swear, I am hard for her. It shouldn’t be possible. I am spent in every way possible. But I am hard for her. Before she even gets the tip of my cock to her lips I am ready.

I grip her hair. Tight, because I can’t help myself. Hard, because that’s how she wants it right now. Rough, because I know the sting will only serve her in the end.

She gags, but I don’t stop. I push her face down until she loses eye contact with me. I push her face down until her chin is rubbing against my balls and her nose is pressed up to the skin of my lower abdomen.

Saliva drips out of her mouth. A strand hanging on her lips, then slowly, like a movie in slow motion, it drips onto my balls.

I release her head because if I don’t, I’ll come down her throat. She pulls away, gasping for breath, hand automatically coming up to wipe away the saliva.

I expect her to be angry. I expect, at the very least, a scowl.

But she smiles and then tips her head back down and we do it again. Then again. And again. Taking breaks each time she reaches critical mass. The moment when she can’t hold her breath, or keep her gag reflex in check, or stand another second of it.

And each time she goes longer. Each time she tries harder. Each time… she surprises me in a way no woman I’ve ever met has surprised me before.

“I’ll keep going,” I say. “I won’t stop. I won’t come. Not until you tell me you’ve had enough.” It comes out like a warning because that’s exactly what it is. Sexual self-control is something I’ve perfected. Something I cherish. Something I take seriously. “I can go all night,” I say, when she doesn’t answer me.

She’s breathing so hard now. Gasping for air. Her cheeks are bright red. Her lips slightly swollen from her efforts. Her eyes… still bright. Still excited.

She kisses the tip of my cock again, then opens her mouth—gaze locked on mine—and wraps her lips around my cock. Both of her hands grab my shaft, pumping up and down with a slight twisting motion. They are slick with water and saliva. That, along with the steaming heat from the shower, is the perfect combination to make me come.

But I don’t. Not until she gives in. And her actions make it clear she’s not giving in, she’s just changing tactics.

She goes slow now, and I don’t press her. I lean back against the tile wall and let myself relax. Let my body soften just a little. Let my eyes enjoy the beautiful picture she’s painting with her actions.

She takes my cock out of her mouth and swipes her tongue up and down my shaft. And Jesus fucking Christ, I might be a liar. Because there’s a moment when I think I might lose control after all.

She feels it too. Senses it the way only a woman connected—tuned in to me and only me—could be.

Because she stops. Gives me a minute. Plays the game we’re not playing.

She doesn’t want to win. Not at my expense. Because this isn’t a competition.