Maybe This Time by Lauren Blakely

But the sensations are stronger than I am. They’re torching my blood.

They’re lighting all my cells. I’m on fire, and I don’t want to put it out.

“Screw it,” I mutter. I slam my free hand against the tiled wall. Pump my fist harder, grip my length tighter. And I mutter, “Suck me off, Stone. Suck me fucking dry.”

Voicing my wishes out loud is an obscene relief. Because once I do it, I give in all the way.

And maybe this time, maybe by giving in, I can let go of the lust. Because it feels so fucking good to picture him. To imagine him right here with me, right now.

My fantasy.

My whole body shakes as I see Stone Zenith on his knees in front of me, his hands running up and down my thighs, sliding around my body, gripping my ass, tugging me even closer.

I grunt, incoherent sounds that turn into his name, that turn into commands. “That’s right, Stone. Suck me even deeper,” I tell him, urging him on.

And Fantasy Stone complies. He draws me all the way back in his throat, into the warm heaven of his mouth where I can no longer hold back. Where all the desire in me whips through my entire body.

Months and months of pent-up lust crash down as I detonate, hard and powerfully, imagining he’s drinking every last drop of my come.

I pant, gasping for breath, my lungs barely able to suck in air because all I want to do is feel that again.

All I want to do is see that again. To see more than that. I want so much more than a blow job. I want to take my boss to bed, throw him down on the mattress, get him ready for me, and then I want to fuck him and please him and touch him.

I want to feel him everywhere, and bring him the highest high, the filthiest bliss, the dirtiest pleasure.

But I can’t have that. I will not let myself have that.

Maybe this release will be enough to let go of all of this desire.



* * *

Trouble is, my cause turns infinitely harder the next night after a concert.

But this can’t be the night when I let on.

This won’t be the time when I tell him how much I want him. I’ve spent the last four months fighting off this desire, and I won’t break.

I won’t give in. I swear.

Too bad my head seems on board with that but the rest of me is having a hard time following the rules.

Because at the end of the night, I walk him back to his suite and I finally tell him something about myself . . . and what I want to do to him.


* * *

I can’t deny that Jackson Pearce is in my head. He’s in my thoughts.

Even though I do a concert that night, and even though I hang out with my friends, all I want is to spend more time with my bodyguard and figure him all the way out.

But when he backs me up against a wall in the hotel and kisses the breath out of me, my life becomes a whole lot harder.

* * *


* * *