Chapter Nine
Lisa
I’ve given blowjobs before, okay?
Tidy, post-shower fellatio with my hair pulled back and the perfect synchronicity of suction and tongue action. Minimal slobber, thank you very much.
But this is different. My own private test, if you will.
I suck Dax in as deeply as I can, seeing how far I can go, pushing my limits. I’d forgotten how huge he is, and there’s a moment of panic where I think I might gag and embarrass myself.
But I don’t gag. Instead, I relax. And in relaxing, I realize I like this. I love it, actually.
I love the way he fills my mouth, threading his fingers through my hair as I move slowly up and down his shaft, taking my time to explore every ridge with the flat of my tongue. He gasps when I graze a spot near the tip, so I focus more attention there, licking and sucking and making soft little circles. There’s slobber on my chin, but I don’t even care. How nuts is that?
His fingers tighten in my hair, and he groans. “Lisa,” he gasps. “You’re so fucking good at that.”
His words send a rattle of pleasure through me, and I love this version of myself. The one who can kneel on an unfamiliar shower floor and suck a guy off like a goddamn porn star. It’s empowering. It’s liberating. It’s—
“Delicious,” I say, easing back to wipe a corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. A flutter of embarrassment wiggles in my chest, and I wonder if that’s really what the porn star version of myself would say. But it’s true and it feels right in the moment, so I say it again. “I like the way your cock tastes.”
The words sound weird and stilted, and for a moment I’m afraid my first attempt at dirty talk has fallen flat. But Dax stares at me with undisguised pleasure and tightens his grip in my hair. “God, you’re nothing like I expected.”
I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not, but I’ll take it as one. Truth be told, I’m surprising myself, too.
I’m also surprised to realize I like it when Dax talks dirty. I love it, actually. I love when he tells me what to do, and I really love hearing how something feels to him.
“Can I ask you for something?” The words spill from my mouth before I have a chance to think them through.
Dax grins. “You’re gripping my dick right now. You can ask me for a fucking pony if you want.”
I laugh as those words ripple through me. Not pony—I mean dick and fucking. Guys don’t talk to me like this, or at least not the ones I’ve dated.
I want more.
And while pre-Test Lisa would count on passive-aggressive cues or subtle moans to get what she wants, this one is going to ask for it.
“Talk dirty to me, Dax,” I say. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”
He stares at me a moment, then nods. “I want you to suck my dick so hard your cheeks hurt,” he says. “See how much you can take.”
I groan and shift on my knees, conscious of the pressure between my legs. His words have me dripping with need, and I wonder if he knows it.
“Okay,” I say, and lick my lips.
Then I lick him again, starting slowly with the head. I swirl my tongue around him, then move down the shaft, sucking him deeper and deeper until I feel him touch the back of my throat. I see stars, but they’re not stars of discomfort.
They’re the good kind of stars.
His hands are back in my hair, rougher this time. He must sense that’s what I want. “That’s it, baby,” he groans. “You suck me so good.”
Yes!
I’ve been praised for many skills in my life—the perfect soufflé, my knowledge of wine pairings, my knack for holiday decor.
But being praised for BJ skills sends a rush of pleasure through me that’s like nothing I’ve felt before. It’s exhilarating.
So are the throaty moans Dax is making, an audible sign of how good this feels to him. How good I’m making him feel.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “Lick the tip just like that. God, you’re so fucking good.”
I grip the base of him, loving how much control it gives me. I lick him like a perfect scoop of cherry gelato and wait for my next command.
“Fuck,” he groans, which isn’t exactly a request. Or maybe it is.
“You like that?” I slip my hand between his legs, cupping him in my palm. “You like it when I touch you there?”
I can’t bring myself to say testicles or balls or whatever a real dirty talking woman might say, but I can see my words are getting to him anyway. Or maybe it’s what I’m doing with my fingers.
“Yeah,” he groans. “Use your nails just like that. Fuck.”
I suck him in deep again, drawing him back into my throat. His fingers tighten in my hair as I start to slide back, ready to do it again.
“Stop,” he groans.
I pull back, fighting a wave of disappointment. “Did I do something wrong?”
He shakes his head and gives a soft little laugh. “You’re doing everything right. That’s the problem. I’m not gonna last if you don’t stop.”
“Oh. Oh.” My face heats up, and I think about telling him not to stop. That I want to get him off like this.
But that’s not the only thing I want.
He grabs my hand and hefts me to my feet, reading my mind. “Take off your jeans,” he commands.
His words send a surge of lust through me, but also a twitch of nerves. I take a deep breath and peel off the jeans, shucking my shoes and panties, too. As I straighten up, I realize it’s the first time he’s seeing me naked. I fight the urge to cover myself. Part of me wants to put an arm across my muffin top. To press my palms against my breasts so he doesn’t notice they’re not very big.
But I do none of that. I square my shoulders and throw my ponytail over one shoulder, determined not to be that Lisa. The one who arranges her body at the most artistic angle like she’s posing for a boudoir selfie.
Dax is silent as he takes me in. I hold my breath, not sure how to read the stoniness of his expression. The tic pulsing beside his right eye.
It’s the heat in his eyes that gives him away, followed by a slow blink like he’s trying to clear his vision. He rubs a hand over his jaw, the stubble making a scritch-scritch sound that sends pleasant goose bumps rippling up my arms.
“God, you’re beautiful.” His voice is thick and gravelly. “So fucking stunning.”
It’s the sexiest I’ve ever felt.
“Jesus, look at you.” He takes a step forward, and turns me around so I’m facing the mirror. He’s right, I do look pretty good. Not perfect—not by any stretch of the imagination—but my whole body radiates desire like it’s been painted with candlelight.
I watch myself in the mirror as he skims a hand over my breasts, bringing me back to the present. I’m aching for him to bury himself inside me. I don’t even want the shower I came here for. I just need Dax. Now.
“What do you want?”
I think about what I want, what I need, what instinct is telling me I should do. They’re all different things, and the options whirl in my brain in a pink-tinged mist of lust and desire and longing.
But there’s one thing I’m sure about.
“I need you inside me, now.” I lick my lips, then add as an afterthought, “Please.”
Dax smiles, then tips me forward against the counter. I grip the edge of the sink, eager for what comes next.
“I want you to watch yourself,” he says. “I want you to see how beautiful you are.”
I meet my own gaze in the mirror, then his. His eyes hold mine as he strokes a hand over my ass, caressing it like a cashmere sweater. One hand glides forward to cup my breast, and my next breath catches in my throat. My face in the mirror is like no version of Lisa I’ve ever seen. She’s wild and wanton and flushed with pleasure.
I think I like her.
His cock bumps into the ridge above my tailbone, and I press back against it without thinking.
“You want that, baby?” he asks.
I nod and meet his eyes in the mirror. “Yes,” I whisper. “Please, Dax.”
Please fuck me is what I’m thinking, even though I don’t say it. He hears the words anyway, and his eyes flash with hunger. It’s like telepathic dirty talk.
There’s a crinkle of cellophane behind me, and though I can’t see his hands in the mirror, I’m relieved he has a condom. As mind-numbed as I am with lust, I might have forgotten.
“Watch yourself in the mirror,” Dax urges. “I want us both to see me sliding into you.”
I do as he says, pulse throbbing in my ears. I can’t see everything, not from this angle, but I can see enough. I can see the hard, latex-sheathed length of him vanishing slowly into me.
But, oh God, I can feel it. I’m dizzy with pleasure, aching from the delicious intrusion. He’s hard and huge and oh-my-god, he’s bigger than I remember. I cry out as he fills me completely, and he goes still.
“You good?”
I nod and meet his eyes in the mirror. “I’m better than good.” I bite my lip. “Talk dirty to me again?”
He laughs, but not like he’s making fun of me. Crinkles of pleasure frame his eyes, and he smiles at me in the mirror.
“Oh!” I gasp.
“You like that?” he growls, and I grip the counter tighter. “You like it when I’m balls-deep in that tight little pussy?”
His words yank the breath from my lungs, and it’s all I can do to nod. Nod and grip the counter and pray like mad he keeps doing what he’s doing. My God, I’ve spent a lifetime cringing when I heard words like these in movies. Why are they the hottest things on earth when they’re tripping from Dax’s tongue?
“Dax, please,” I manage to gasp.
“You want it harder?”
How does he know that? It’s like he’s reading my mind, which scares the hell out of me and thrills me all at once. “Yes,” I whisper, and Dax obliges, turning my whisper into another groan of pleasure.
There’s an audible smack of flesh against flesh, and I clutch the counter harder. Years ago, I had one of those Clapper things to turn off my bedside lamp, and I think of how the goddamn lights would be flashing like a strobe right now.
“What’s making you giggle?” Dax growls. It’s not a mad growl, though, and he smiles as I meet his eyes in the mirror.
“This,” I gasp as he slams into me again. “You. All of it—I just—”
I stop myself there, too giddy to trust myself with words. My brain has switched off, overpowered by lust and pleasure and whatever voodoo magic Dax is working right now.
I giggle at the thought of Dax fucking me in a magician’s cape, earning another snort from him.
“You’re lucky I have a healthy self-esteem,” he says. “Otherwise, I might wonder why you keep laughing.”
“I can’t turn my brain off,” I admit. “I keep having silly thoughts, but ohmygod—” I suck in a breath as he drives in deep and hits something really good. “Don’t stop!” I squeak out.
He grins at me in the mirror. “Let’s see if we can’t shut off your brain, hmm?”
He drives in hard again, gripping my hips, and I wonder if I’ll have bruises tomorrow. I hope I will. I want physical proof of the best sex I’ve ever had in my life.
“I want you to come for me, baby,” Dax murmurs. “You think you can do that?”
I nod, even though I’m doubtful. The man knows female anatomy, clearly, so he must know that in this position, the friction isn’t happening in quite the right spot.
“Touch yourself,” he murmurs.
I blink at him in the mirror. “What?”
“You heard me.” Dax drives into me again. “Rub your clit, just like you would if you were alone in bed thinking of me fucking you like this.”
I swallow hard, turned on by the words even as they terrify me. Sure, I’ve touched myself plenty when I’m alone. I’ve even had boyfriends stroke me there when the situation called for it. But touching myself in front of someone else?
Remember The Test…
“Okay,” I gasp, and draw my fingers up between my legs.
The effect is electric. I gasp as my index and middle finger glide slick over the sensitive bud. Missiles of pleasure launch through me, and I buck against Dax as he pounds into me again.
“Oh!” I cry out, closing my eyes to absorb the pleasure.
Holy hell, this feels amazing.
“That’s it, baby,” he urges. “Open your eyes and watch yourself.”
I do as he says and see myself with tousled hair, bee-stung lips, and a hulking, sexy-as-hell tattooed god pounding me from behind.
Who is that woman in the mirror?
My face is scant inches from the glass, fogging it with sharp breaths of pleasure. I look blissed out. I look sexy. I look like a woman who’s about to come her brains out.
“Dax—” My voice is unfamiliar and primal.
“That’s it,” he growls.
His words, and one more stroke, are all it takes. Then he’s driving into me as the orgasm grabs hold of my whole body and throws me into a spinning centrifuge of pleasure.
Sensation pulses through me with each thrust, with every slick stroke from the pads of my fingers. My breasts smoosh into the counter, giving me the delicious contrast of cool porcelain and raw heat and explosions of pleasure everywhere around me.
Dax slams into me again, and somewhere in the back of my brain, I realize he’s coming, too. The spasms inside me give way to more, and I realize my own body is responding, yanking me back onto the rollercoaster of pleasure.
Holy shit, is this what they mean by multiple orgasms?
We’re both breathless by the time the sensation stops. I lie there spread across the counter, this panting, grinning, unrecognizable version of me.
Dax meets my eyes in the mirror and smiles. “You okay?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. Just pulls me up against him where I bury my face against his chest and nod and grin and giggle without meaning to.
“I’m amazing,” I breathe. “Was it good for you, too?” I do a mental face-palm at the sound of those words. “That was dorky, wasn’t it?”
Dax just shakes his head and strokes a hand down my back. “That was fucking phenomenal.”
I smile. “Agreed.”
He turns me so I’m leaning against the shower wall. It’s a good thing, too, since my legs were about to give out. “Was that a little outside your comfort zone?” he asks. “The dirty talk, touching yourself—all of that?”
I nod as heat creeps into my cheeks. “A little, but isn’t that the point?”
“Definitely,” he says. “But I hope you know you can tell me if you don’t want to do something.”
“I know.”
I may not know Dax well, but I can trust him with this. My body, my safety, my heart—
No. Not my heart. That’s not what this is about.
I smile and try to think of something witty to say. Something breezy and flirtatious so he understands we’re on the same page with this casual sex thing.
I’m still thinking when there’s a gurgle from above, followed by a blast of icy water.
“Aaaagh!” I shriek as Dax spins me around so he’s shielding me with his body. We’re both laughing as he fumbles for the taps, twisting off the icy blast of water. “Fuck!” he gasps as he cranks the knob, tattooed forearms wet and flexing.
When he turns to face me, we’re both dripping and laughing like idiots. “Well,” he says. “Looks like the water’s working.”
I dissolve into giggles again, certain I haven’t laughed so hard in years.
Certain that the potent stew of emotion simmering in my gut is way more intense than I’d bargained for. I expected fondness, not passion. Pleasure, not joyful delirium. Insert tab B into slot A and all that jazz, but this—this—whatever it is with Dax… It’s not like anything I’ve known before.
Dammit.
Dax grins, and I wonder if he’s read my mind. “Ready for that shower now?”
I shoot a nervous glance at the showerhead. “Does it have a setting besides frigid?”
“Let’s find out.”
I take a step back, and Dax turns the knobs again. Water burbles from the showerhead with a little less intensity than before, and he takes a few seconds to adjust the taps. “There,” he says, running a hand under the water. “That should do it.”
He holds out his slippery hand, and I take it, letting him pull me under the spray with him. Warm water sluices down my body, and I sigh as he glides his hands down my arms and back up again, palms fitting perfectly over the curves of my shoulders.
“That feels good,” I murmur.
I’m not sure if I’m talking about the water or his touch. Steam billows around us, and I glance down at my pink-tipped toes looking small and fragile with Dax’s feet on either side of them. I tip my face up again and let the warm droplets patter across my forehead.
Dax smiles and brushes a damp hank of hair off my forehead. “You okay with sharing the shower, or would you rather take turns?”
Something about experiencing this with Dax seems right. It’s not just The Test, either. It’s a closeness that has nothing to do with my experiment and everything to do with being utterly overwhelmed by what just happened between us.
“I’m not used to sharing,” I admit. “But I want to with you.”
God, that sounded cheesy. But Dax doesn’t laugh.
“Turn around,” he says.
I must look startled, because he smiles and shakes his head. “Not for that,” he says. “Turn around, and I’ll wash your hair for you.”
“What?”
He grins and grabs a green bottle from the rack hanging around the showerhead. “That’s assuming you can handle generic Dollar Store shampoo touching your perfect hair.”
There’s a challenge in his voice, but also something soothing, warm and gentle like bathwater. I pivot on the slippery shower floor, conscious of Dax moving behind me. There’s a click of the bottle top opening, followed by a billow of cedar-scented steam filling the small space.
“That’s it,” he murmurs as his hands close over my scalp. His fingertips start to move, massaging soft, languid circles along my skull. He lifts my hair off my shoulders and works his way down, massive fingertips kneading the spot where my head meets the top of my neck. I groan as his thumbs work that spot for several heavenly moments, loosening something inside me.
My shoulders go limp with bliss.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “That’s the spot.”
God, it’s like a massage and a hair appointment all in one, with the bonus of a hot, naked tattooed guy in charge of it all. I didn’t know that was a thing.
I close my eyes as he works his way down, gentle as he lathers the shampoo into a fragrant cloud around my head. He takes his time, careful to swipe the suds from my brow. He’s murmuring something low and soothing, but I can’t make out the words. It could be a lullaby or a recitation from a welding manual for all I know. Whatever it is, it sounds as good as this feels.
I lean back against his chest, letting Dax tip me back to rinse the froth from my hair. The shower nozzle must be handheld, because he’s guiding the spray along the back of my head. My eyes are still closed, but his fingertips feel like a dream threading through my hair, kneading my scalp until I’m on the brink of purring like a housecat.
“That feels delicious,” I murmur.
“That’s the idea.”
I sigh and let him keep massaging. The suds are probably long gone, but he hasn’t stopped touching me. Hasn’t stopped threading his fingers through my hair, skimming his palm over my shoulder to brush away bubbles.
What is it about this that’s so much more intimate than what we were doing fifteen minutes ago?
Bent over the bathroom counter, I was sure I’d reached maximum pleasure. I thought that was the best I could possibly feel.
I was wrong. So damn wrong about everything.
Why can’t I stop smiling?