Exes and O's (The Influencer #2)

by Amy Lea

He smooths his thumb over my bottom lip, his eyes searching mine, as if silently asking whether I’m sure. I tighten my grip around him, and he swiftly kisses me again.

Apparently, my feet have an agenda, because it’s me who walks us backward to my bed.

I’m like an impatient Regency-era hero finally peeling away his lady’s dress, only to find a slip and a corset underneath.

“You sure you want to keep this PG-13?”

“No. I want to do way more than that.” “I want you to. Please,” I whisper.

I think I would sell my soul to have more of him, in any way I can.

“My followers wanted this.” “None of your followers wanted it more than me.”

After months of pining, he’s mine. I’d die before I’d let him out of my reach.

I make an impatient motion to undo the button. He laughs, lifting me with little effort as he stands, stripping both his pants and briefs in one smooth movement.

He stands in front of me, and his smile makes me want to melt into nothingness. “Why are you looking at me like that? You’ve seen it before.”

I want to grope every inch of you with heedless abandon.

With a featherlight touch, my fingers trace the artwork tha...

I inwardly groan. Must he be so unexpectedly sentimental and adorable?

“You okay?” he asks, lifting my chin. “It’s just . . . I have a question.”

“What’s your middle name?” His muscles relax, and the corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. The rumble of his laughter vibrates into my mouth when his lips touch mine again.

“I need to know. I have a bit of a personal rule . . . with . . .” “Right, you can’t touch my dick unless you know my middle name.”

“Hey, I don’t have to touch it if you don’t want me to,” I tease. “Oh, I want you to. So long as you don’t bite me,” he warns, pressing the softest bite into my neck.

“It’s James,” he whispers as he pulls my right thigh over his chiseled waist.

“Trevor James Metcalfe,” I repeat, loving the way it rolls off my tongue. “Say my name again,” he orders, his voice low and gravelly.

Without hesitation, he tugs the lace of my thong aside, not bothering to remove it completely before smoothing his fingers over me with the precision of a heart surgeon. He lets out a garbled string of curses when he feels how much I want him.

“Does that feel good?” he whispers, easing one finger in, followed by a second. “Mm-hmm,” I manage, clipped, as I clench around him, rocking against him in a slow rhythm.

My nails grip into his back, probably leaving scratch marks on his perfect skin.

And when he says, “Tell me what you like,” he nearly sends me over the edge.

“I think you already know. Somehow you know. Maybe you’re a psychic,” I say through a half moan, half gasp. “No,” he mutters. “I’ve just had months to agonize over it. Over you.

You’ve been driving me fucking wild.”

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

“I’ve had a couple dreams about it,” I admit. Or ten. He smiles. “Dreams like this? Care to elaborate?”

“Did it feel good?” He picks up the pace, meeting my eyes. “The best,” I pant. “Except you didn’t make me come. Because the real you woke me up.”

“Trust me, that won’t be a problem this time.” He gives me one more cocky smile before lowering himself between my legs.

Seamlessly, his mouth takes the place of his hand. Just like in my illicit dream, we’re connected. He knows what I want before I can even tell him.

My legs tremble, and he holds them wide open, taking control entirely, winding me up until I’m convinced I’m facing impending death.

I’m still trembling when his gaze locks with mine, visibly taking pleasure in how he’s made me feel.

For the first time, he relinquishes control. He lets me hold him down, a smile tugging at his lips as I retrace all the artwork adorning his chest with my lips.

By the time I finally take his length in my hand, he shudders, letting out an unexpected groan that does something to my insides in the best way. It’s oddly gratifying to have such an impact on him without really doing anything at all.

There’s nothing I want more than to hear how he sounds when I take him in my mouth. I want to see what he looks like when he comes undone.

“I can’t believe you’re right in front of me like this.” His words quiver with raw emotion, letting his hand roam down my back.

“How much have you thought about me doing this to you?” “More than you wa...

“Tell me exactly.” “Since the day you moved in, I wanted you,” he manages. “I’ve never wanted someone so bad in my entire life. You’ve wrecked me.”

When I give him a teasing lick, he lets out a string of breathy curses. “Holy fuck.”

Even submitting, he’s still dominating, threading his fingers through my hair, holding me in place, how he wants it.

And judging from all the filthy things coming out of his mouth—how much he loves my mouth, how wet he imagines I am, all things that could make even the most seasoned romance readers blush—I’m confident in my abilities.

“Can I ask you something?” I blurt out. “No,” he chuckles, running his fingers up and down my spine.

“You’re bad at a lot of things.” He lets that statement linger in the air for a few beats too long. “But believe me, blow jobs aren’t one of them.”

“You never listen to me,” he says, his lips curled into a boyish grin. “I thought I told you never to let me kiss you again.”

“Metcalfe, you were a perfectly fine kisser. I couldn’t let your head explode,” I tell him.

while your kiss that day was fine, I thought there wasn’t anything behind it. No deeper feelings or anything.” “Well, now you know that wasn’t true.”

He loses all control at one point, sitting upward, capturing my lips, my neck, my breasts with urgency.

He presses his forehead to mine. “We don’t have to do anything else if you don’t want to.” “I do want to. I really want to,” I whisper, meeting his eyes with urgency.

A low groan escapes him as I lower myself, his voice driving me wild with need. “You can take it, baby. That’s it.”

“Fuck,” I moan, tipping my head back as I fully sink onto him, feeling him hit me exactly where I want it.