THESE THORN KISSES, page 33
His thighs flex at my words.
The words he said to me in his kitchen last week.
The words that mean more to me than he could ever imagine.
So I go for it then.
I go for his jeans, ready to unbutton them, as I rub my cheek over that tent in his pants, hot and throbbing. Which makes it throb some more, my soft cheeks.
But he grabs the back of my neck and stretches me up. He bends down and levels me with his lusty eyes so he can growl over my lips, “You want to suck my cock, baby?” I nod, all lit up at his endearment, and he presses a hard, possessive kiss on my lips before continuing, “You can suck my cock. But remember what I told you. Remember that my beast of a cock is going to wreck your flower of a mouth. It will wreck and stretch your pinky lips before it does the same to your throat. Remember that I warned you. Your thorn warned you about his dick.”
He presses another possessive kiss on my mouth before straightening up and leaving me to do my thing.
And I do.
I do do my thing as my hands jump and leap to open his jeans. To tug at them, lower them and get out his cock.
And when it’s out, I hate to say it but I forget about everything.
I become all selfish and self-centered.
A bratty teenager.
A teenager who has no concept of the woods, the winter, the wildly breathing man standing over her. She only needs this thing, this red throbbing thing in front of her.
She wants to lick it and suck on the head. So she does that.
I do that.
I jerk forward to put his wide purple head in my mouth and it throbs like a heart on my tongue. So I do it more. Pressing my hands on his thighs, I suck and suck on the head of his dick, making it throb, making him all tight and growly.
Until I get bored with it. As if I’m playing a game and now I want to play another one.
Now I want to see if what he told me was true or not.
So I wrap my hands around his thick trunk and put it on my face. From chin to forehead. And he was right. He was.
It covers me whole and there are still some inches left. His purple head goes past my forehead and I smile. And moan.
I also slap my cheek with it, rub my nose along the underside of his dark rod. As I lick that vein.
That thick vein that I think — I think — I felt throbbing when he was inside of me last week. I think it expanded when he came and I’m so eager to see if it does the same when I make him come now.
In my mouth.
So I abandon this game too.
Which is just as well because I think I’ve made him angry with my callous games. I’ve made him all aggressive again with the way he’s staring down at me with slitted eyes and clenched fists.
So I bite my lip and give him a look of contrition through my eyelashes.
But that only makes him growl even more.
It only makes his dick jump in my hands and ooze pre-cum, which I catch with my tongue, swirling it around the head, licking it clean, my whole body shivering at his salty, musky taste.
And then I don’t let go.
I don’t let his dick leave my mouth after that. I keep it on my tongue, my lips stretching around it as I suck and suck. As I lean forward and push it inside more.
At which point his fists unfurl and his hands grab the back of my head, fisting my hair. Not pushing on me, no. But just there, like a dark but cozy threat.
A threat that makes me even more excited to keep going.
To shove him even further into my mouth, and after a few tries and some gagging, I do get to do it. I do get him deeper, touching the roof of my mouth, the back of it.
But a second later, I’m ripped off from his cock and pulled up. And before I can even blink, he spins me around and hauls up my ass.
My hands go to the windows of his truck and I turn back, panting. “But I…”
He’s in the process of shoving up my dress and pulling down my lacy panties when he looks up, all mad and obsessed. “No more, you understand? We’re not playing this game anymore. We’re not playing ‘Let’s see how goddamn crazy we make Conrad with Bronwyn’s dick-sucking mouth.’” He finishes that with a tight slap on my ass that makes me moan as he continues, “I’m over that now.”
I fist his sweater as I stare back at him with somehow both drugged and eager eyes. “But did you like it? Did you see? I almost took it all. I almost —”
He cuts me off by coming for my swollen mouth again like he can’t bear to hear me talk right now. Like he can’t bear to be away from it, from giving me his kisses.
His lovely thorn kisses.
“Yeah, baby, I saw,” he both coos and growls then, his mouth sucking on my lips. “And it was fucking phenomenal, yeah? And one day I’ll come in your mouth and watch myself drip down your chin. Or maybe I’ll come on your tits” — he reaches forward to grab one and squeeze over my dress — “hose them down with my cream. And then I’ll stand over you and watch as you rub my cum all over your milkmaid tits. So you smell like me. But for now, I need a ride in that prime pussy, okay? It’s been seven days. Seven fucking days and I have thought of nothing else. Nothing else, Bronwyn. Not the game, not practice. Just getting inside that pinky pussy and beating it up.”
How can I refuse him then?
How can I be a bratty selfish teenager and tell him to let me suck his cock when he needs my pussy so much?
When this is all he’s thought about.
So I kiss him back and whisper, “Okay.”
A wave of emotion runs over his features at my easy acquiescence before they go harsh again, dripping with demon lust, and I feel him position himself at my soft, soppy entrance.
I feel his head nudging my hole for a second before he pushes it in.
And keeps going and going until he bottoms out.
Until it feels like he’s up in my belly, nudging my womb.
He groans then, smacking my ass again as if he can’t contain his pleasure. And I swear, I swear to fucking God, I feel that vein I was playing with swell up and throb. My one hand twists in his sweater and the other slips on the window as I go up on my tiptoes, arching my ass even further so he can go up even higher.
And then I’m moaning in his mouth because he’s kissing me as he starts moving.
As he starts pumping into me.
Slowly, lazily at first.
Because I think he’s giving me time to adjust. Because I’m still almost a virgin, see. I’m still all tight and fresh because I’ve only had him twice on one night. Last Friday.
So despite being all crazy to get to me, to get at my pussy, my Conrad is giving me all the time in the world.
He opens up my channel with his thick cock, all careful like.
All sweet like.
While he keeps me soft and cozy with his kisses.
And slowly, I start to push back.
I start to bounce my ass on his dick.
Which is what he was waiting for.
He steps back from our kiss and adjusts our positions. He bends me down even more, making me put both my hands on the glass window, and hikes up my ass so he can really get at it. And then he’s moving. He’s sliding in and out. He’s pumping and pounding as he rides my prime pussy, his tight abs bouncing against my ass, against the spots where he spanked me, making this fuck even more delicious than our first.
Meanwhile all I can do is bounce back every time he comes for me.
All I can do is feel it spreading, this heated, liquid lust.
Until I’m all covered in it.
Until I’m right there, on the edge.
And until he leans forward, his big chest breathing at my back, his hands that were holding on to my hips now wrapped around my waist, straightening me up and plastering me against him.
It changes the angle at which his dick is hitting me and I gasp out, “God, Conrad, I…”
“You like that, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
He brings a hand up and grabs my throat, his lips whispering in my ear, “Yeah, my wallflower likes it. She likes it when I wreck her pussy too. When I beat it up so good that she can’t help but come on my dick. Are you going to come, Bronwyn?”
I nod my head. “Yes.”
But it doesn’t happen.
Not right away.
Even though I thought it would.
I don’t fly over the edge, until he pushes me. Until he smacks his hand on my ass, the loudest, most biting slap so far, and I come.
I fly and scatter like petals.
But he keeps me collected.
He keeps me gathered and tethered in his arms as he comes as well.
Inside me, all thick and hot and lashing.
By the time he rights my clothes and bends down to put my panties back on, depositing me in the cab after, I’m all sleepy and sated. But I do remember to say, “Congratulations.”
When he frowns, I smile sleepily and move his hair out of his eyes. “You won the game. I knew you would. Because you’re wonderful.”
There’s a tightening of his features for a second or two as he stares at my disheveled, sleepy self like I’m wonderful. Like I’m the most wonderful girl in the world.
Before he kisses me again and whispers, “Go to sleep.”
I spend every weekend with him.
Well, not every weekend.
Because I go to a school where our every move is monitored and accounted for. And even though I’m one of the few girls who has the most privileges, I still can’t abuse them willy-nilly.
So we have to pace ourselves.
We have to be careful.
Even though it’s hard after that one-week separation.
So instead of every weekend, Conrad gives me a pink permission slip every couple of weeks. That I can use to go out and stay with him. And on those weekends, he waits for me at the bend of the road in his truck to take me to his house in Bardstown.
And can I just say that I love his house?
I know it’s old and I know that he’s lived in it all his life. Which means he isn’t much of a fan, but still.
And just because I want him to love it more, I’m giving him a new one.
A new home, I mean.
By painting his walls a new color.
Especially his bedroom walls.
Standing in the middle of his bedroom on one such weekend, I tell him, “You know, I wanted to paint your walls.”
Again he’s at the door, leaning against it with his arms folded, as he watches me walk freely around his domain.
Or he watches my thighs; specifically, the art on them.
So recently I’ve had a fashion consult with none other than Poe, the fashionista among us. I told her that I wanted something short and slightly more revealing and sexy. She obviously figured it was for Conrad — which it is — and lent me a ton of her clothes. It’s a good thing that we’re sort of the same in the chest department. Hers are bigger than mine though, but since I’m taller than her, her short dresses are slightly shorter on me.
Which is even better than good.
Because in her short, made-shorter-on-me dresses, I can show off the art on my body.
I can show off his name that I still write every night in my dorm room.
Which is what he’s staring at: his name peeking out from under the hem of my red dress.
Lifting his eyes, he says from his spot by the door, “Paint my walls.”
I clench my thighs a bit at his voice, at the dark glitter in his eyes. At the fact that he hasn’t stopped staring at me ever since we arrived at his house and I took off my magenta parka.
“Yes.” I nod, raising my eyebrows. “I hate to tell you this but your walls are bare. Especially the ones in your office. I noticed it the first day I was there.”
His eyes narrow at the mention of that first day. The day he took my privileges away. “You mean, the day you took a walk through my office like it was your personal amusement park.”
Right.
I try to look contrite as I say, “Yes. Which I’m still really sorry for, by the way.”
But I think I fail because my apology is what gets him moving. My apology gets him to unfold his arms, lean away from the door and take a step toward me.
And just to rile him up, I take a step back.
He watches my bare, pink-nailed toes, my ankles adorned with silver anklets before glancing up at me. “Are you?”
“Yes,” I reply right away, biting the inside of my cheek to keep my excited smile at bay. “But that’s not the point I’m trying to make here.”
He takes another step toward me. “And what is the point you’re trying to make here?”
“The point I’m trying to make is that I wanted to paint your walls that day,” I tell him, moving back. “I wanted to give you something pretty and colorful to look at while you sit in your boring chair and do all the boring coach-ly things.”
His lips twitch at ‘coach-ly things’ as he runs his eyes up and down my body, looking at my pink toenails, my red dress, my golden arm chain with red beads, my necklace made of red stones. “Something pretty and colorful, huh.”
I blush. “Yes. Like flowers.”
That gives him pause.
His smooth, predatory steps falter as well.
“Flowers,” he says, looking slightly offended.
I come to a stop because I’m at the wall now as I reply, “Yes. Flowers.”
He stares at me a beat. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t.”
“And why is that?” I ask, raising my chin. “Are you too much of a man to like a flower, Conrad Thorne?”
At this something astonishing happens.
Something that takes my breath away for a second or two and makes me forget what we were talking about.
He chuckles.
Chuckles.
Like really.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard him or seen him do that before. Because I would’ve remembered. I would’ve remembered how deep it is. How low and rough, just like his voice. How it makes his Greek god face glow.
And it makes me think that I’ve been aiming too low.
I’ve wanted to make him smile and I always felt victorious when he did.
But I should’ve aimed for this.
I should’ve aimed for his chuckles. Amazing and beautiful and sexy chuckles.
I’m so entranced by this wonderful turn of events that it doesn’t even register when he resumes walking and makes it all the way over to me. Not until he puts one hand on the wall up above my head and leans over. Not until he says, all thickly and with amusement at the same time, “No, Bronwyn Littleton, I’m not too much of a man to like a flower. In fact, there’s this one flower I really like.”
I go to say something at that but only a gasp comes out because he touches me.
With his other hand, he touches me down there.
And if it were over my dress, I would probably be okay.
But it’s not.
Somehow he’s managed to get his other hand under my dress, and on my pussy. Somehow he’s managed to hook his fingers around the crotch of my panties and pull them. Up against my channel, up against that little bundle of nerves.
“This pretty little rose,” he rasps, his eyes almost burning me alive. “Right here.”
I clench my thighs and arch my back so he can use my panties to rub me harder. I even go so far as to rock against his movements as I say breathily, grabbing his bicep, “I’m going to do it.”
“Do what?”
“Paint your bare walls. With f-flowers.”
At this he fists my panties and pulls them harder, making me jerk. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He moves his hand from the wall and puts that one on my body as well, on the back of my neck to pull me up and closer. “And do you know what I’m going to do?”
“Fuck me?”
His jaw tightens slightly at my shameless reply. “Yeah. Because you need that. You also need me to remind you of a very important thing, don’t you?”
“What thing?”
Another hard tug with his knuckles rubbing against my clit. “That you’re not allowed to move away from me. You’re not allowed to move away from Conrad.” A shiver runs down my spine when he says that and I’m on the verge of closing my eyes but he squeezes my neck and continues, “But first I’m going to take care of this dress.”
I’m up on my tiptoes now, all stretched up and teetering on the edge of an orgasm and all he’s done is play with my clit. “You mean r-rip it off my body and throw it in the trash?”
That’s the other reason why I went to Poe for a wardrobe consult
To rile him up a little.
His eyes go back and forth between mine. “That’s why you wore it, yeah?”
“Yes. And also because I’ll get to wear your clothes after.”
“Well, if you dressed up so prettily for me,” he says, his fingers still clutching and twisting my panties, “then it’s only fair I give you what you want. But I think I’ll keep my clothes this time.”
“Why?” I ask frowning.
“Because I think I prefer you naked. Only so I have something pretty and colorful to look at.”
He kisses me as soon as he finishes, and I come as soon as he touches his mouth to mine.
I still can’t believe how easy I am when it comes to him.
How easily he makes me come and fall apart.
But anyway, the next day he takes me to buy paint and supplies so I can start giving him a new home.
Which I hate to say that even after several weeks is still lagging behind.
I’m so freaking behind on my plans.
Because as much as I want to work on giving him a pretty picture of bold and colorful flowers, he just won’t let me do it.
He keeps distracting me.
Something that I never ever thought Conrad Thorne, the epitome of authority and control, would be capable of.
But every Saturday morning after we have breakfast — which I make because I’ve also decided to cook for him every chance I get because he really does suck at cooking — and I put on my baggy denim overalls to get to work, he comes into the room and watches me.
