Behind the Camera (Love through a Lens, #2)

by Chelsea Curto

Dallas pulls his arm out from behind his head and reaches for me, nudging my knees apart and slipping his hand between my legs. “You like this, don’t you, pretty girl?” he asks, and slides a finger inside me. I moan against his cock, and his chuckle is anything but teasing. “Where do you want me to come, Maven? Down your throat? On your tits? Tell me, because you’re driving me out of my fucking mind, and I can’t last much longer.” I pop him out of my mouth and continue to stroke him. I run my fingers through the pre-cum leaking from his slit and bring them to my mouth, savoring the saltiness. “My tits,” I say, and before I can explain myself, Dallas is flipping us around. I land on my back and he kneels over me, his hand giving himself quick jerks. His entire body is flushed, a deep scarlet that looks like he should be lounging under a sunset. His movements are rough, sloppy, and when I rest my hand on his thigh, over his tattoo, and reach for his balls, he loses it. Warmth covers me from my stomach to my neck, and Dallas falls forward, bracing himself on the headboard. His breathing comes out in choked breaths, and I rub his leg, helping him calm down.

“Fuck,” he says. A bead of sweat rolls down his stomach, and I sit up and lick it off. “You’re perfect. Can I keep you?” “That’s the orgasm talking. I hope my mouth is better than your hand.” “Significantly.” He drops his head back and stares at the ceiling. “I really fucking hope we win today.” “You’re thinking about football right now?” I ask, and his lips curve into a grin. “I guess I need to step my game up.” “I’m thinking about football, because if we win, we’re doing that every fucking Sunday morning. And it would be a shame to waste such talent.” Later, when Dallas kicks a sixty-seven yard field goal that goes down as a new NFL record, he points to me over a sea of people and makes a heart with his hands, another secret only we share.