Page 25 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

The giggle that Alana’s laughter filters into is nothing short of delighted. This is the first time she’s ever seen Cyrus legitimately embarrassed and it’s an adorable look. Last night makes a lot more sense now. How wound up he seemed to get at her encouragement, the praise. How quickly he unraveled just from being called good.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed.” Alana grabs his hands and gently frees him from hiding. Then, she trails down the roaming length of his chest; feather light as she navigates the intricate muscle.

Had this been yesterday, Alana isn’t sure she’d be brave enough to explore Cyrus like this—far too consumed with her lack of knowledge to feel like she’d be any good. She would have second-guessed every look, every movement. But this new version of herself has bloomed with the desire to do things differently. To explore, to take risks.

“I meant what I said. You really are a good man, Cyrus,” she murmurs. “At least, you really seem to be.” When her fingers skate over his ribs, his chest rises and falls with a shudder. She doesn’t miss the subtle twitch of his dick from behind the confines of his sweatpants. Her eyes flicker to his, and his throat bobs. “You’re kind, thoughtful. Patient. You made me feel really good last night and you didn’t even know…that it was, um, actually my first time.”

Cyrus’ eyes widen, a hand quick to run through his hair. “You mean you were—oh, sweetheart, you should have told me. I would have—I mean, shoot. I would have at least set the mood. Got some rose petals or something.” He exhales with a surprised, bashful laugh and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m honored, but are you sure I didn’t hurt—”

“You didn’t.” Alana cuts in. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you treating me like you were afraid to break me, or like I was made of glass or something. Which you didn’t.” She pokes his chest. “You were everything I needed last night, Cyrus. And if you’d let me…I’d like to return the favor.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CYRUS

The sight of a beautiful woman sinking to her knees is one that never quite loses its appeal. It’s a view Cyrus is privileged to see often, and it strokes his ego a little bit each time it happens. Alana Darling lowering to her knees, however? Asking for permission to suck his dick while she looks at him from beneath those pretty eyelashes? Well, now, that does something unfamiliar to his poor, unsuspecting heart. His pulse thunders in his ears, and the moisture in his mouth evaporates.

This hadn’t been in their negotiations.

Their scene had ended as soon as Alana passed out last night. Which means she’s under no obligation to return any kind of favor, no obligation to sit there on her knees looking so innocent when asking to do something so objectively filthy. His professionalism begs to remind Alana that her offer is not necessary in the slightest. That last night had, quite literally, been his pleasure. But when her delicate hands slide up his thighs towards his hip bones, massaging them in gentle circles, it makes it hard to think like a rational man. Alana pauses, and her head tilts expectantly. Gods help him.

“You really don’t have to, Miss Alana,” Cyrus rasps. His muscles twitch beneath the pads of her fingers when Alana’s hand navigates back to the swell of his excitement. If she were to stop touching him right now, she may just as well strike him down with a bullet of silver and kill him where he stands.

But he offers her an out. A chance to reconsider.

Alana merely smiles at him with a coy tilt of her lips that has no business disrupting the rhythm of his pulse the way it does. “I know I don’t,” she says. “But I want to. If you’re comfortable with it, I mean.” She leans in to kiss his clothed erection, and Cyrus’ remaining willpower disintegrates.

He nods, and his hand finds the back of her head, where he gently rakes his fingers through her thick coils.

Alana flashes a taunting smile, before she drops her voice to a spot-on imitation of his southern drawl. “Use your words, Darlin.” Oh, this girl.

“Yes,” he purrs. “I’d like that very much.”

Alana continues down Cyrus’ body. Slow, unhurried. His mouth opens with a sigh as she kisses every mark, every sunspot, freckle, and old scar. He’s got a few here and there, each with a story more outrageous than the last. Hardheaded and accident-prone, his brother often calls him. “Bullheaded” had also been a title his recklessness had earned him over his formidable years. The most noticeable of his markings is a long scar that leads from under his pec down to his hip, the skin raised and discolored with age.

“Bull riding accident,” Cyrus breathes. He isn’t sure why he felt it necessary to blurt that out; perhaps he hopes that an explanation of its origin will prevent Alana from finding it unsightly. When she takes notice of how tense he goes beneath her, she pauses to glance up. He expects a flicker of distaste, or for Alana to divert her attention elsewhere, as many others have done before her. But she doesn’t. She trails kisses down the dark line of raised tissue, her touch gentle. “Does this hurt you?”

“Not anymore,” he whispers.

It should embarrass him, how hard he is. How far-gone Alana has him when she’s barely touched him. Despite most of his blood having migrated to his groin, heat pools in his face as Alana makes her way to the bottom of the scar. She kisses the bone that protrudes there, nipping along his skin as her hands slide towards the band of his sweatpants. There, she tugs them down past his thighs, finally allowing him to spill forward. The cool air that hits him earns another quiet hitch of his breath.

“Tell me if I’m doing anything you don’t like. Okay?” She looks up at him from behind wispy eyelashes.

Her hesitancy quickly reminds Cyrus of what she had told him: he had been her first. Had he been her first everything? Has she never sucked anyone’s dick before his? He’s almost ashamed of the thrill that rushes up his spine at the very thought. The idea that he’s the only one who’s had the privilege to see her like this.

The only one she’s trusted with this type of vulnerability.

“You’re doin’ all the right things so far, sweetheart. But trust that I’ll let you know.” Cyrus says as he scratches his nails against her scalp.

It should be illegal how pretty she looks with blush dusted across that vitiligo. The sight of her sends him pulsing, breath ragged as he grips the kitchen counter with his free hand. As many times as he’s been given head, he’s not sure he’s ever felt he could come just from the sight of someone. Which is why when Alana finally takes him in hand, he’s forced to say a silent prayer.

Alana pumps him a few times, her movements awkward and experimental as she finds the right rhythm. “Do you like it soft?” she asks, her touch light. “Or more rough?” She adds more pressure, squeezing around him and making his knees buckle. “D-dealer’s choice.” Cyrus’ chest heaves with a shaky exhale. He swallows as Alana repeats the same rough, slow motion a few times before her heart-shaped lips nuzzle just beneath his cockhead. Then, she’s guiding him into her mouth, sucking around him until her cheeks are hollow.

Oh. Oh, shit.

A low groan filters past his clenched jaw, fingers twitching to guide Alana further. He resists the impulse to see Alana gag around him, tears running down those rounded cheeks. The devil ought to drag him straight to hells for how pretty a picture he imagines that would be: face flushed, eyes watery, and pupils blown as she looks up at him with that cock-drunk expression he loves so much. Rather than test Alana’s limits too quickly, he rolls his hips into her mouth, slow and careful despite every base instinct telling him to be anything but.

“Goddamn, Miss Alana.”