“Do you like that?” I whisper.

His reply is a jerky nod.

I can feel him getting hard, the valley between my thighs settled straight on his dick; he’s wearing thin athletic pants that do nothing to conceal the erection, and I wish I’d worn yoga pants and not denim.

So I could feel every inch of it.

Our mouths connect again, this time because Jackson can’t wait to taste me. Bless his hands, they begin to wander, straying up my ribcage, thumbs spanning, flirting with the sides of my breasts.

His movements are a little rigid and jerky, as if he’s not quite sure what he’s allowed to do, as if waiting for me to yell at him.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes.” Higher, as a matter of fact, and to the left.

Touch my boobs, touch my boobs, touch my boobs…

He doesn’t.

His mouth is perfection, tastes delicious, if that’s considered a thing—like minty toothpaste, saliva, and need. If Jackson has never kissed anyone before, I never would have guessed it. Either that or we were meant to be together.

I want his lips everywhere.

Patience, Charlie…

Little by little, my hips rotate. Little by little, I watch Jackson’s expression go from one of wonder to one of…bliss. And agony.

His eyes close when I line us up and grind gently, my head tipping back as I mimic riding him on top. Even though we’re both wearing bottoms, I can still feel the head of his dick creeping up inside me. It’s deliciously old school and I feel like I’m in high school again, making out with my boyfriend in his parents’ basement, listening for the sound of them coming along to bust us.

But no one does.

It’s just me and Jackson and a locked door in a college rental. No one is going to bust us; there are no parents here.

His friends didn’t bat an eye when I walked through the living room, and if they thought it was strange Triple J was finally having a girl up to his room, no one said a word.

Maybe they’ll give him shit for it later; maybe they won’t.

I grind.

I grind and bite my lower lip, closing my eyes for a second—crack them open again to watch Jackson close his. His head is against the headboard, mouth falling open, heavy brows bent in concentration. Or pain.

“Am I hurting you?”

He jerks his head. “No.”

“Good.” Because it feels good—and would feel even better if his pants were off.

He gives my hips a tap when I speed up my rhythm, a warning tap. “Be careful, Charlotte. I don’t w-wanna…don’t wanna…”

Come in your shorts?

I don’t want him too, either, but I love watching his expressions. They’re my new favorite thing in the world, passing across his face in flashes. Shock, surprise, euphoria.

I lean down and suck on his neck, careful not to leave a mark. Kiss his throat, right on top of his Adam’s apple. He’s shaved and smells incredible. Clean. Masculine and sexy.

I kiss his exposed collarbone along the scooped neck of his t-shirt, sniffing there, too.

Yum.

Nuzzle between his pecs as I make the slow, languid crawl down his body.

“W-What are you doin’?” He’s raised his head, eyes blazing and unfocused as he looks down at me.

Giving you a blow job—what do you think I’m doin’? I want to ask but bite my tongue.

I press a finger to my lips. “Shhh.”

“Oh god.” His head slams against the headboard again, and I note him white-knuckling his navy coverlet.

It’s been an age since I’ve had a dick inside my mouth, and I wonder if I’ll remember how to suck one. I let my fingers find the waistband of his pants and tug.

Jackson lifts his hips, jerking them when I pull at the fabric. Ass scooting down a bit farther, settling in. He unclenches his fingers, lifts his arms, and clasps his hands behind his head.

I can’t tell if he’s even breathing, he’s holding so still. Watching me with baited breath.

I want to tell him to breathe; I also want to laugh, he looks so damn serious.

He’s concentrating harder than I am, his forehead scrunched, brows knitted so furiously he’s likely to combust.

He’s never had a blow job…

This thought gives me a renewed sense of confidence—no matter how bad I screw it up, there’s no way I’ll suck at it.

Pun intended.

Jackson has nothing to compare it to. I’m his first: first kiss, first blowie, first…

My pussy tingles at the thought of having sex with him, making my mouth positively water when I hook my fingers in his boxers and work them down his hips. Hold a breath of my own when the fabric of his drawers catches on the tip of his dick, snagging but freeing itself when I give another gentle tug.

I’ve never been one of those girls who was a huge fan of dicks—I think I’d gag if a guy sent me an unsolicited picture of his—but Jackson’s penis? It’s…

Perfect.

He gasps when I cup my hand and run it over him, down toward the base and up again. Slowly. Slowly. Up and down, again and again.

“Fuck, Charlotte. F-Fuck, fuck…”

His words are music to my ears. They’re a tribute to how good I’m making him feel—and I haven’t even done anything yet.

I stare at his junk for a few moments, studying it. I can see that it’s throbbing, involuntarily twitching the longer I look. I’m close, my hot breathing warming the tip. My tongue darts out so I can lick it. Flick it.

I watch his eyes flutter closed, his biceps flexing. Nostrils flaring.

Thighs clenching, too.

His whole body is tense, trying to gain some semblance of control, and I love it. I want him to lose it. I want him to…

I want to make him feel like he’s never felt before.

No amount of jerking off and masturbating is going to feel like my mouth on his cock, and we both know it.

I free his business up a bit more by yanking his pants and underwear down so they’re around his thick thighs, noting that everything about Jackson is big. Thick. Hot.

So beautiful and well put together, he’s a work of art that’s gone unappreciated for twenty-two years—and I plan to make up for lost time if he’ll let me.

I lower my head and…suck. He damn near jerks his ass off the mattress.

“Holy fuck!

I suck a bit harder, as best I can given the size of his dick.

“Charlotte, stop.”

I raise my head. “You want me to stop?”

“No! Yes. No, oh my god, don’t stop.”

“Okay.” I laugh.

I get back to it, deciding to enjoy myself (let’s face it, who actually enjoys having a cock jammed down their throat?), deriving all my own pleasure from the pleasure I’m giving Jackson. Hearing his moans and sighs and grunts and cursing.

It sounds like he’s being tortured.

Just as I begin to wonder how long he’s going to last with my mouth wrapped around him, his hands come down from behind his head and hit the mattress, grabbing fistfuls of comforter.

I’m not timing this, but it can’t have been more than five minutes.

“Shit, oh shit…” He’s mumbling, moaning. “Christ…oh god…”

Wow. I knew this would be easy, but I didn’t think it would be this easy. I’ve heard horror stories from my friends about guys taking half an hour to come from a blow job, which would be my worst nightmare.