Ante Up (High Stakes, #1)

by Christina C. Jones

Those words sent a chill up my spine, but I was ready, not stupid. I didn’t need him to know it was me, or need him to know why. I didn’t need to offer him a soliloquy, pour my heart out about the ways he’d failed my mother, or brother, or me.

Take risks. If you win, you’ll be happy. If you lose, you’ll be wiser.

But then his mouth was on me, very hot, and very wet, and that was very, very comfortable.

He groaned into me, a deep sound of complete satisfaction as he closed his mouth over me, slurping and sucking like my skin was covered in sweet syrup, and he wasn’t trying to miss a single drop.

I grabbed one of the throw pillows, biting down as I used my elbows as leverage to move away. It was good – it was so good – but it was also too good. More than I could take. “Don’t run,” he growled, dragging me back into place.

He buried himself in me deep and stayed there, making me gasp as he pushed a hand between us to rub my swollen clit between his fingers.

then his hand was around my neck, in a grip that was just firm enough to make a tingle of fear rush over my skin. A second later, he was stroking me too hard for me to care.

then came to his own release, but my mind was elsewhere, soaked in ecstasy, bathed in the feeling of everything.

And it kept going, and going, and going as he kept moving in me, renewing the wave of orgasm over and over again until I was weak.

Shit got damn

“Because you never have sex. But you’re glowing right now! He tore your ass up didn’t he?”

“Like he never wanted it put back together.”

others in his position – rested on that privilege, using it as a cushion to absorb mediocrity.

I’m sick of saving you! When the hell is somebody going to save me?”

And then I sat down on the floor, and cried for the death of a dream I should have known better than to have in the first place.

“Am I in trouble?” “Do you want to be?”

“I want you to stop calling me Mr. Whitfield. The name is King. It’s just a name, not a big deal. I’m a big deal, but the name isn’t.”

For some reason, even though I knew he meant those words as a compliment, they stung. Tough girl. So unaffected, so… strong. A term I hated so much it put a bitter taste in my mouth. Strong. That’s what was expected of me, strength.

The memories weren’t cathartic, or gratifying. They were the equivalent of cutting my wrists, just with no evidence left behind on my skin, and no knife. It was sobering.

he grabbed me around the waist, pulling me until my shins bumped the front of the chair, and then hiked one of my legs up over his shoulder.

planted my other hand on his head, trying in vain to push him away. It was too, too much at once, but he wouldn’t stop. My mouth opened for a moan, but nothing came out – his fingers burrowed into me, snatching away my breath as he hooked them forward.

massaged him harder, closed my mouth tighter, lathed him with my tongue. Suddenly, he tore away from me, bending to rip me up from the floor. He practically tossed me onto the bed, climbing on top of me with the swift agility of a panther, moving my legs apart before he sank into me with a firm, hard stroke.

I could still taste him in my mouth, salty and manly and perfect, and the feelings… my God.

“Don’t get too sassy with me girl, I bite. And that means exactly what it sounds like,”

“You’re so damn beautiful. These eyes… it’s like they hold more than just you. Like you’ve got a whole line of other lifetimes behind them or something.”

Men’s kindness never came without a price. I’d learned that lesson from an early age, watching the gendered interactions of the people around me. Women gave. Men took. Sometimes, they afforded you a lifestyle that made it worth the sacrifice.

Deep kisses and deep strokes again, so slow and intense that I started thinking I wouldn’t mind at all if he wanted to take permanent residence inside of me.

“Well maybe your headstrong ass needs a translator,” he barked, glaring down at me. “Letting you keep your job – saying something. Getting you in that tournament – saying something. Running up in another nigga’s house like goddamned Batman – saying something. Not walking away from this irksome conversation – fucking saying something. It’s not my fault if you aren’t listening.”

let him kiss me, and with every nibble on my lips, every swipe of his tongue, I wondered if this was saying something too. “I made myself clear to you last night… and I don’t like repeating myself, Red.”

“Are you going to answer my question?! Let me repeat it for you, just in case – Have you lost your goddamned mind? And here’s a bonus question – Do you need some help finding it?”

Lord Black momma’s are something else lol

While it could be an actual conversation between my father and I, with my mother, you shut your ass up. She had the questions and the responses, saw past, present, and future, and wouldn’t think twice about hurting your grown ass feelings.

Lmaooooo

You’re not too old for me to make your Daddy take off his belt.” “And neither are you,” My father teased, making her giggle, and I groaned.

I smirked. “Have you tasted yourself? You are dessert.”

And then… I’m going to fuck every bit of energy out of both of us, so we won’t dream about the shit either. And tomorrow, we’ll consider this a successful night.”

“Trademark of someone who’s used to being taken advantage of. You refuse to go back, and refuse to do it to anyone else. Probably why you have a hard time handling someone not expecting anything in return when they do something nice for you – you can’t help wondering about the balance.”