It’s terrible, teasing him like this. I know it is. But he looks so damn good with sleepy eyes, with his cheeks flushed from being under the covers—and I know he isn’t wearing any shirt or pants, because when he was sleeping, he mumbled something about being hot and pulled the pants off.

Meaning, as I drag my foot up his warm, hair-dusted leg, the only things between me and his package are his boxer-briefs.

The muscles of his legs are taut and thick. When I tickle my foot over him, he shuts his eyes and sinks onto his pillow.

“Am I hurting you?” I whisper.

“Fuck no.”

His hands catch my foot and gently knead the bottom.

“Mmmmm.”

Then he tugs me by the ankle, bringing my foot down so I can feel how hard he is. He rubs himself against my sole, and I giggle. How weird—and how sexy.

I wriggle away from him, then duck under the covers. I start licking near this ankle and drag my tongue slowly up his calf and knee. By the time I reach his thigh, Dash’s hands are clenching my shoulders.

I lick my way up toward his boxer-briefs, then tease my fingertips inside the shorts, reaching toward his cock, which I feel tenting the cotton. But I don’t touch him.

I can feel his need—it’s echoed between my own legs—but I take my time, licking all around, until at last he loses self-control and grabs me by the neck, then by the hair.

He moans, “Please…”

I peek at him from under the duvet. “Have you been a good boy?”

“No,” he groans.

“Then I don’t know…” I resume my careful licking, teasing all around his balls before I lick along the seam, giving them each a turn in my mouth while his body tautens and trembles. His fingers in my hair are hurting, but it’s so damn hot to see what I can do to him. Not what he can do to me; what I can do to him.

I finish with his now-taut balls and cup them in one palm and lick around the base of his shaft. I can feel it pulsing, feel how aching hard he is. His balls have drawn up, too, even more so as I lick around his shaft, up toward his head. When I get there, I taste the warm, slick, salty taste of his desire. His need for me. I twirl my tongue around his tip, under his head, and am rewarded with another tiny stream of saltiness.

“Oh God. Amelia…”

I lavish my tongue on his tiny slit, then travel back around his rim, taking some time at the soft indention on the bottom of his head—which makes his hips tremble.

“Amelia, Jesus. Fuck.” His body stiffens as he thrusts himself at me, his thick head pressed against my cheek.

“What’s the magic word, Dash?”

“Please…”

I close my mouth around the head of him, and Dash cries out, hoarse.

“Mmmmmm.” I do that just to drive him crazy—the vibration. And it does. I know because I taste it in the back of my throat.

I can feel him shaking. I can feel his hands on my shoulders, how hard they’re clutching. And I know he has to want to push me down… But he resists. Because he knows he fucked me over? Because he feels guilty?

I tell myself his tolerance is proof he feels bad. That he knows how he hurt me—and he’s sorry. He said he was sorry.

I feel how sweaty his hands are and decide to take more of him down my throat. I’m not the most experienced at this, but in the last week and a half, I’ve gotten pretty good at deep-throating. Dash is so long and thick, I can’t take all of him, but I can try my best—and it must be pretty good, because his hand on my nape tightens, and he loses it: thrusting too hard into my throat; I choke and gag.

“Damn you,” I hear him snarl, and then he’s fucking my throat, so forceful, for a second I’m afraid that I might actually choke—but then I coordinate my breaths with Dash’s thrusts and I can take it.

I relax and let him use me.

I want him in between my legs, but I don’t ask, and couldn’t anyway because I can’t speak as I drool and tears stream down my cheeks.

With what little coordination I can muster, I caress his balls, roll them around. Dash’s fingers clench in my hair… His hands press my face from each side, and he thrusts like he was fucking my pussy. I think he’s come before he has, because there’s so much precum. He’s so hard, so awfully hard, I’ve never felt a man this hard, not in my mouth. I wonder dimly what it will be like when he comes—and then he’s gone.

He’s pulled out, coming somewhere out of view. Into a sheet, I find. My mouth and jaw are throbbing when he grabs me, tosses me down on the bed, and moves between my legs. He snatches my thin, cotton night-shorts down and lowers his face between my legs, where he uses his tongue to torture me until I’m so desperate, I am actually crying.

When I feel like I’ll die of want, he flips us: he’s on his back, and I’m straddling him. His cock is rock-hard, straining. Dash lifts me and rubs his thick head at my sopping entrance.

I can’t help the moans that pour out of me.

“Please, Dash… please…”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me!”

So he lowers me down on him, filling me so good my breath snags on a sob, and then it’s all I can do to hold onto his knees and hips so he can fuck me. I come harder than I knew was possible, so spent I fall right to asleep. When I awaken, dim light peeks around his curtains. I’m covered in blankets. When my eyes sag back shut, I can hear the water running.

So he’s in the shower.

Oh my God…I let him fuck me.

I had sex with Dash again.

It’s overwhelming. So much so, I bolt up out of bed, throw my clothes on, and go straight to my apartment. When he calls—two times, then three—I can’t answer. I just…can’t.