Page 91 of Dallas Rivals

I rise, turn toward him, and without a second thought, straddle his lap and kiss him like I could chase the hurt away.

Oliver’s hands find my waist, pulling me tight against his bare chest. I’ve never felt him this much, this everywhere—his fingers gripping my back, my hips, my neck—anchoring me in place as he deepens the kiss.

It’s primal.

Possessive.

Ours.

“I want to try again,” I gasp. “I want you to feel pleasure there.”

Mesmerized by my plea, Oliver nods, and I don’t waste a minute of this small window of opportunity he’s giving me. Whispering his name, I make sure my voice is clear and strong so that he remembers who is giving him this. I kiss his thighs and play with him, getting close to his cock without touching it. My plan works, as I build up his pleasure and desire until he starts to thrust his hips, wanting me to touch him in the forbidden zone.

He wants me to suck him and I’m more than willing to help.

I slowly take hold of the base with my hand. Oliver tenses up, but leaves his hands at his sides, his fists clenched as he resists the urge to push me away.

“Here I go,” I say, sliding my tongue from the base to the head.

“Oh God.” With his eyes closed, he punches the mattress.

I lick again, as if it were the best ice cream on a hot summer’s day, and he gasps in a way I’ve never heard before.

And this is only the beginning.

When I take the tip into my mouth, Oliver moans so loudly that he has to cover his face with the pillow to muffle the sound.

I smile proudly to myself and begin moving steadily and rhythmically. It feels salty and thick in my mouth as if it couldn’t possibly get any bigger, but it does.

“Fuck!” He throws away the pillow and begins to move his hips, seeking to go deeper and take control. I let him because that’s exactly what he needs: He needs to take control of his sexuality and get the pleasure he deserves.

His hand digs into the back of my neck, holding me steady as he penetrates me mercilessly. Our eyes meet.

“Wait, wait, I’m going to come, Cala.” He warns me, pushing me away, but I cling to his legs.

It’s too late.

Oliver comes in my mouth.

His eyes are closed, his body is tense and his mouth is open, but no sound comes out.

Once he has finished, I move away from him and wait for him to open his eyes and focus on me. He looks agitated, his eyes wide open and fixed on me.

I have always thought that the only time a woman can see a man at his most vulnerable is during orgasm. However, after our conversation and being the lucky person he chose to tell his story to, I’m not so sure anymore.

Although this orgasm was unique for him, I could see it on his face.

“Thank you,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me onto his lap. “Thank you, thank you.” He hugs me, burying his face between my breasts.

I can feel his tears wetting my skin.

We both cried, and I realized that crying for him was inevitable, just like hugging him and telling him that I was there for him, that I was in love with him and that, if he accepted me, I could give him what he needed.

Instead, I melt into his embrace and wait for him to unleash all that has silenced him these past years.

When I open my eyes, the first hint of sunlight is breaking through the window.

Oliver’s arms are wrapped tightly around me, our legs tangled together. I wiggle closer, pressing my back into his chest. I didn’t think we could possibly be any closer, but somehow, he proves me wrong pulling me tighter against him.