Page 26 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

Cyrus is nothing if not a man with considerable stamina. He’s spent hours with clients in the past, outlasting them at every turn, and offering several orgasms before he had even one to show for it in return. But when Alana’s tongue swirls along the nerves that settle on the underside of his crown, the telltale sign of completion rushes to the forefront faster than it has any right to.

Alana works him over like her sole goal in life is to make him lose his credibility, her eyes half-closed and head bobbing, taking more of him each time. She rests her hands on his thighs, and her brows pinch together in what Cyrus assumes is concentration. It’s cute. She’s only taken half of him, and temporarily, his ego worries if he’s too much. If, perhaps, she’s taking on a bit more than she can handle. He rakes his fingers through her hair and, when she inhales through her nose, sinks a few inches deeper. Not all the way, but close. Hot, wet heat intensifies around Cyrus, and the air in his lungs gets punched out.

“Alana—” His voice breaks with a whimper so juvenile that one would think he’s the inexperienced virgin in this scenario. He coughs to disguise it, leaving his hand over his mouth to ensure that pitiful sound doesn’t happen again. But it’s too late for that.

The playful glint in Alana’s earthy brown eyes shines as bright as any sunrise, and her tongue rolls across the delicate underside of his head again, lapping at him while she starts to stroke what she can’t fit in her mouth. Her hands glide like velvet against his skin, and Cyrus’ composure begins to crumble. With his glamour absent, his tail thumps aggressively. He’d be embarrassed if he could care about anything other than the electric heat rushing through every nerve. He chases the pleasure; his hips roll forward, more forcefully, and his blunt nails shift into points. He’s careful with them, cautious not to accidentally maim her.

“Just like that, sweet girl. Fuck, you’re going to make me cum.” Alana whines against him, and while she does shift, there’s no attempt to pull away. Instead, she does the opposite. Cyrus feels her breathe in through her nose, feels her trying to relax her throat, and glides the flat of her tongue underneath him to allow more room. Her moans vibrate against the entirety of his length, and she swallows him like she can’t get enough. He doesn’t get a chance to warn her before he reaches his inevitable end. “Oh, Alana. Shit, baby—” Her name drags out of him in a guttural groan as his orgasm hits with a burst of light behind his eyes. He grunts, his head flying back while he spills ropes of milky white. The hand on the back of her head flies away in favor of gripping the counter, but Alana remains seated with her nose buried inches away from his pubic bone. She swallows what she can before eventually pulling away for the last remnants of his orgasm to sputter across her cheek, lips, and chin. It’s downright sinful how incredible Alana looks painted in his mess, and the sight keeps him half hard even after he comes down.

If he were a better man, he would find his mama’s old rosaries and sit down in a cathedral after this and find a way to make up for his transgressions. Then again, he highly doubts he’d be allowed back in without a chaperon after his little mishap in the confessional a few months back. He could have sworn the place was empty after hours. He still owes that priest a gift basket or something.

“Are you alright?” Cyrus asks, a soft, crooked smile on his lips as he leans down to wipe away some of the cum from her cheek.

Alana nods, her face flushed a pretty shade of pink as she leans into his touch. Her chest expands with heavy breaths, her eyes half-lidded. “Mmhm.” Her voice is rough like sandpaper.

“Was that—was that okay?”

A winded laugh barks from Cyrus. “Was that okay? Miss Alana, you are…” He brushes his thumb down the swell of her bottom lip. He swims in her wide eyes, returning to that large, doe-eyed look he’s come to know. “I’ve said it before, but you’re dangerous.”

This is where he should leave things well enough alone. And perhaps he would walk away if not for the fact that he could smell the subtle sweetness of her arousal. Cyrus vibrates with thinly veiled hunger as she shifts uncomfortably on her knees and squeezes her thighs together. He could end this here. He should. Then again, he wouldn’t be able to consider himself a gentleman if he were to send her home needy, now would he? Cyrus lifts Alana to her feet and dips his hands underneath her plush thighs, laughing as she squeaks. He sets her on the kitchen counter, slotting between her legs and he brings them up to wrap around his hips. The corner of his mouth stretches with a lopsided smile as he soaks her in. He finds himself doing that a lot lately, though he can’t be blamed. She is, without a doubt, one of the prettiest things he’s seen during his time on this earth. Alana offers no protest as he kisses her jaw, then to the side of her neck, where he buries himself. Her scent is stronger there, intoxicatingly so. It’s different than what he could pick up before, with notes of cherry and almonds and shea butter. It reminds him of her bakery, though her time there has little to do with her scent, he’s sure. No, this was all her. It takes a pathetic amount of resolve not to rub himself against the source. Anything to soak it all in so they smell like each other for days.

“Cyrus?”

Alana’s nervous laugh pulls him from his thoughts. Cyrus blinks, and it isn’t until he withdraws from the side of her neck that he realizes he’d been there for a rather awkward amount of time, tail wagging a mile a minute.

“Everything okay?”

Heat pools across his face, and he can only hope it isn’t all that apparent. Schooling his features, he smooths a hand through his hair and gives a cocky smile in an attempt to recover from, well, whatever that was.

“My apologies, sweetheart,” he says. “Now where were we—”

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ALANA

Several questions run through Alana’s mind when Cyrus attempts to resume his efforts, leaning in close enough that their noses touch and his breath ghosts across her bottom lip. He’s sporting that suave smile he wears so well, and it’s almost hot enough to distract her. Almost. Had he been trying to scent her?

Alana doesn’t get the opportunity to ponder the thought because the shrill, consistent ringing of Cyrus’ fire alarm erupts against her ears. She and Cyrus both flinch, simultaneously whipping their necks around to the cast-iron skillet they’d left on the burner billowing out white smoke.

“Shit!” Cyrus hollers, tripping in his attempt to pull his pants back up over his ass. Alana watches with wide eyes as he kills the heat and rushes the skillet to the sink before anything can catch fire.

“Wait, if there’s oil in that, don’t use water! Hold on.”

Alana attempts to slide off the counter to see if she can find some flour to smother any possibility of a fire. Keyword being attempts. Perhaps it’s the fact she was fucked with an inch of her life last night, or that she’s spent more time on her knees this morning than she has in the last decade. Whichever the case, her body has decided that it’s met its limitations. As soon as her feet touch the floor, her legs give out, tripping over absolutely nothing at all and landing in an unceremonious heap on the kitchen floor. It knocks a groan out of her lungs, and Cyrus, the poor guy, is so distracted with trying to waft away the residual smoke that he hadn’t even noticed her demise. He back-steps, only to trip over her body, landing beside her with a heavy thud that shakes the cabinets.

That had to hurt, if the way he hisses and rolls around next to her is any indication. She wants to ask if he’s okay; truly, she does. Or at the very least, extend some form of assistance. But the only words she can manage aren’t words at all; laughter spills the second she opens her mouth. It bubbles out of her like carbonation from a shaken bottle—an uncontrolled wheeze that makes her ribs hurt.

They almost started a fire.

She was so busy sucking dick that they completely forgot about breakfast and almost started a fire. How much of a horny idiot do you have to be to forget you have a burner going off two feet away?

Alana rolls over, glancing through the tears in her eyes to see Cyrus glaring at the ceiling with pinched brows and his mouth drawn in a paper-thin line. When the beeping of the fire alarm subsides, his expression splinters. The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile, and an arm falls over his eyes. Ultimately, that fight fails, and he succumbs to his own fit of rich, bellowing laughter.

“Goddammit, woman.” His shoulders shake with the effort to get it together, but it’s of little use.

Alana would offer an apology at this point, but it would be a lie. She doesn’t feel very sorry, not with the ridiculous way their laughter ping-pongs from one person to the other, settling only to pick up again when one of them makes a noise or sighs a little too hard. It leaves neither of them able to get a full sentence out for what feels like an eternity, and it isn’t long before a satisfying ache settles deep in Alana’s lungs. It’s the kind of feeling Alana hasn’t experienced since she was a kid. Back when the world seemed more colorful by default, and her mind had yet to become bogged down with the expectations of adulthood and all the seriousness that came with it. Back when joy came easily.