Untamed (69 page)

I touch his face, feel his heat. He takes my finger into his mouth, bites it, and I touch his soft, full lips, trace my finger along the sharp line of his jaw, over his cheek bones.

God, he always looks so good before fights. I don’t know why I like it so much, I just do. The sweat, the dim lights, the way he’s so locked-in, the desire I see in his eyes…

I can smell him, too, from his pre-fight warm-ups. I love the way he smells, especially when I can detect a hint of his musk.

His eyes narrow, and there’s a break in his expression.

“Nothing,” I say, quickly. I realize that now is not the time to tell him. I realize that doing so will shatter whatever stony state he’s in, whatever mindset he needs to be in to take a beating and win this fight.

I can’t do that to him. I won’t. The news will have to wait. He’ll still be here after his fight, and so will I.

The fight won’t last that long.

It can wait.

I lean back, look at his bulge, the outline of his need for me, and then back into his eyes.

“You look hot,” I tell him.

A small grin parts his lips, and I see the tops and bottoms of his straight teeth. He pulls me close to him, wraps an arm around my waist.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers. “I want you.”

I coil my arms around his neck, smile back at him. My heart is racing, there’s so much going on in my mind at once.

But what floats to the top is the knowledge that I want him, too. That I’ve also been thinking about him all day. That after the first tears of panic, and last tears of joy, that I wanted nothing more than to be with him.

To be close to him.

God, why today, of all days? Why fight night?

“How much do you want me?” I ask him.

The lust for me that I see in his eyes catches fire.

Duncan pulls me in tighter, and I fold my arms around him, run my palms along his hard, broad back.

But he turns me around in his arms so he’s behind me again. He likes to be behind me. He begins kissing the side of my neck. The touch of his warm, soft lips makes me hum, makes me crane my neck to the side so he can kiss more of me.

“More than anything,” he growls. “I can’t stop thinking about the way you smell, the way you taste, the way you feel.”

The sensation of his warm breath rushing against my neck is intoxicating, and his body heat radiates into me.

His hands run up my sides, and I feel a welling of anticipation inside me, a pressure. His touch, even through my clothing, is so electric, so possessive. It’s like my body belongs to him.

“You’re only mine,” he says, his voice quiet. “I’m never letting you go.”

He’s like this normally, but on fight nights, it’s dialed up to eleven.

I press back into him, feel his hardness against me, and reach behind me and cup him through the fluffy towel he’s got wrapped around his waist.

“You’re always so hard,” I tell him, the thought turning to words effortlessly.

“You make me hard,” he says, taking a fistful of my hair. He tugs it back, makes me look up at the ceiling, and from behind me he leaves a trail of hot kisses along my jaw, my chin.

“I spent the whole day imagining you moaning onto me,” he tells me. “With your arms above your head, your breasts against my chest.”

“Is that all you think about?” I ask, letting a small smile creep across my lips.

I want to turn toward him, want to kiss him, let him claim my lips as his like he is my body, but he doesn’t let me.

“Every fucking minute. It’s been hell without you.”

“Even while you were training?”

“Especially while I was training.”

“Even while you were giving your interview?”

“I think he noticed.”

I laugh at the thought, Duncan sitting there with an erection while getting asked inane questions.

“You must be frustrated, then,” I say, gripping onto his manhood harder through the towel. I find the edge of the cloth, slip my hand inside, and there wrap my fingers around him.

“You have no fucking idea,” he breathes.

I start to slowly caress him, stroke his cock. I can feel his pulse in my fingers… or maybe it is my own racing heart? I can’t tell.

I bring my hand up and over his tip, feel a dab of wetness on my fingers. Slowly I rub my thumb against the back of it, and I hear him exhale slowly, know that what I’m doing makes him feel good. There’s one rule on fight nights: He can’t come. He says it helps his testosterone levels immediately before the fight.

“Do you enjoy doing this?” I ask him. “Even if you don’t get to—”

“Every fucking second.”

His hands move inward from my sides, cup my breasts, and I sigh as he massages them, kneads them hungrily. I feel the press of his teeth against the skin of my neck, the dab of his wet tongue.

“Some girls wanted to get in,” I say slowly. “They said they wanted to give you kisses for good luck.”

“Fuck those skanks,” he says, his voice deep. “I only want you.”

“Just me?”

“Just you.”

“But for how long?” I tease. “What about when I get older?”

“Then I’ll get old with you.”

I smile, push my head against his. “What if I don’t want you anymore when you’re older?”

“Well, tough shit because I’m not leaving you.”

He’s more emotional today, I can pick up on it. Maybe he senses the news, somehow. Maybe, on some intuitive level,
he knows.

“You still don’t know what you do to me, Dee.”

“I can feel what I do to you.”

I take his hand, push it down over my belly, then lower, and he dips it below my skirt, brings it up, cups me.

I gasp at the heat in his palm. I feel it so acutely, and through my underwear he starts to rub me slowly, pull sighs and soft moans from my lips.

His body language, even just the aura of lustful energy he has speaks only of his desire for me, and it makes me feel so attractive, so wanted, makes me want him more in turn. He wants me bad… it’s not just fight nights. It’s every single night. Every waking moment.

I hear him inhale beside me. He always likes to smell me, right by my ear. I don’t wear perfume on fight nights because he doesn’t like me to. He says he loves the way
I
smell.

I know what he means. I love the way
he
smells, unmasked, unaltered, uncovered. I love to wear his gym hoodies… he thinks its gross because he sweats into them, but I like it. Maybe it is gross, but I don’t care.

He starts to rub me faster, settles into a rhythm, and he pulls back my hair again, turns me so we’re facing the full-body mirrors that line the wall.

With him behind me, his lips against my neck, his hand beneath my skirt, and all in clear view in the mirror… I never expected watching myself and him to be hot, but it is. It’s really hot.

“Do you want me to make you feel good?” he asks.

I nod.

“Say it.”

“I want you to make me feel good,” I say breathlessly.

Already I can feel my knees growing weak. Already I’m starting to sag in his arms as he plays me expertly, his chosen instrument.

My breathing quickens, my temperature rises, and in his arms I feel so safe, and in his arms I feel so wanted.

“Yes,” I hiss at him, letting my eyes fall shut. He rubs me slowly, drags his tongue up the skin of my neck, squeezes my breasts, plays me so deftly, sends a mild and budding pleasure thrumming through my body.

I squirm in his arms, push my ass back against him so I can feel his hardness. I’m his willing captive, letting him touch me, and he pulls soft moans from my lips, makes me feel those hints of bliss, behind which is the promise of so much more.

“Mmm,” I moan, and he bites the back of my shoulder, sends goose bumps erupting all over my body, and sends shivers shooting down to my toes.

I grin, lick my lips, grip onto him tighter behind me and start to jerk him off. He moves his body to the side, and I pull his cock out from inside his towel, and I can see him now in the mirror, see his hardness, feel him.

“Damn, you are sexy, Dee,” he says, meeting my eyes in the mirror. We look at each other, him touching me, me touching him, giving each other pleasure.

And then when he can’t take it anymore, he picks me up, pulling a yelp and a laugh from my lips, and he sets me down on the sofa, and pulls off my flats slowly.

He strokes my feet, makes me giggle and squirm, and then in between my legs he kisses each of my toes in turn, then the tops of my feet, and then makes his way up my inner thigh, leaves a trail of tingling skin.

I’m so wound-up already I almost want to hurry him on, but I know that on fight nights, we go at his pace. He made that clear the first time we ever did this before a fight.

His crystal blue eyes gaze up at me, and he lifts my skirt up, over my hips, and then with his teeth he hooks the elastic of my underwear and pulls down.

I grin at him, see him smirk back as he pulls it off with his mouth, baring me to him. He brings my panties to his nose, smells me, and for a moment I feel a flash of modesty, but the look in his eyes quashes that instantly. It’s all hunger and lust, all desire.

He guides my legs up, so my feet are on the sofa, and presses his face closer to my sex, kisses me around my outer lips, teases me.

I feel his tongue dart out, touch my clit for an instant, and I’m jolted by sensation, a sharp hint of pleasure.

“You smell so good,” he says, voice baritone, lust-laced. And then he pulls his tongue up my sex, and I moan and quake and tense my thighs as he starts licking me just the way I like it.

He settles on my clit, flicks it rhythmically with his tongue and I’m just lost in sensation, in heaven, leaning back against the sofa, wanting to stretch out like a cat and let him pleasure me.

I grip onto his hair, pull him harder against me, mash myself against him as he laps at me like he needs it to live.

“Oh shit,” I hiss, feeling the temperature in my core rising, feeling that pressure in my belly. He works me so expertly, knows exactly how to bring me surging forward toward the edge.

“Yes!” I groan, gripping onto his hair harder, pulling him tighter onto me. I feel my body grow tight, lift myself off the sofa, right up against the edge.

And then he backs me off.

I grin at him, tut, shake my head. “You big tease. You always do that.”

He smirks, keeps licking me, and I fall back into bliss as he rings a finger around my entrance, groan and squeeze as he pushes it inside me.

I moan as he slides in a second finger, feel myself stretch around him, and then he starts to finger me, pressing upward with each thrust, making me feel so good.

He groans onto me, and his laps grow feverish like he’s starving for me, and his fingers fuck me harder, and again I feel that pressure inside me, feeling myself coiling tighter and tighter, ready to explode.

“Come on,” I pant, practically begging him to make me come, to give me the release I want. “Fuck, yes yes, yes…”

I throw my head into the sofa, arch my back, grind myself against his face.

He brings me right there again, so close, and at the precipice, right when ecstasy is about to come crashing down all over me, there’s a loud knock at the door.

I freeze. A voice that comes booming through the door: “Fifteen minutes.”

But Duncan doesn’t stop. He keeps going, and remembering that the door is locked, my body thrills with pleasure again. I’m lost in it all again, climbing higher and higher. The pressure is building… I’m going to—

“Ooohhh,” I moan as he drives me off the edge, as I crest. I’m soaring, in orbit, and I moan at him, “Don’t stop!”

He doesn’t, and as ecstasy grips me I squeeze around his fingers, and he makes my orgasm last for so, so long, I don’t even know how he does it.

I’m shaking, trembling, mouth clamped tight so that I don’t moan too loudly. I curl my toes, grip at his hair, tug him hard, so hard I’m sure it hurts.

He just makes me feel so, so good.

And then I’m coming down, the waves of pleasure no longer so intense. I’m bathing in a pool of bliss, humming, grinning.

I let out the long breath I was holding, and shiver as I grow too sensitive. Duncan pulls his fingers from me, plunges my pleasure into his mouth, sucks me off his fingers.

He tells me how good I taste, and his towel has come apart, and looking down at him in between my legs, I can see his hard cock jutting out from his crotch.

He leans forward, drags his tongue up my sex, and I shudder, pushing him off me.

“Wait a minute, okay?” I mewl at him, grinning. “I’m sensitive.”

He kisses me furiously, crushing his lips against mine, and he takes my hand and guides it to his cock, and I grip onto him and jerk him fast and hard.

He climbs up over me, straddling me almost, his back curved. I push him backward, and once again I feel overwhelmed by desire.

I kiss him down his chiseled stomach, smell his musk, bury my nose in his trimmed pubic hair and smell my man.

I kiss my way up his shaft, lick up the droplets of pre-cum beading at his tip, and then I take it into my mouth, bob up and down on him fast, press my tongue against the back of his cockhead and jerk him to the same rhythm.

He leans back, his body tightening, and he runs his fingers through my hair, tells me how fucking sexy I am.

I love the way he tastes, love the groans that leave his lips, love the way he looks at me while I suck him off, while I bring him closer and closer to the edge.

His breaths grow ragged, his thighs tense up, and when I get him almost there I pop him out of my mouth, and look up at him, grinning.

The look on his face is that of pure torture.

“God damn it,” he growls, leaning down, kissing me. I push my tongue into his mouth, make him taste himself, and he just kisses me harder for it.

He lifts me up with an easy strength, one that makes me feel small in his arms, and I wrap my legs around his waist. His eyes bore into mine, and then flick down to my lips, and he kisses me again, like he can’t get enough of me.

His cock is pressing against my entrance, and he lets me sidle down his body, and I gasp as he enters me, stretching me.