Morning blow jobs are the best. Settling back into the plush pillows of my bed and closing my eyes, I take what she’s offering. I don’t need the visual of her blonde head bobbing up and down on me to make it feel better. Her mouth is like a fucking Hoover, and it’s doing an excellent job on its own.
This is a bit of an anomaly. I don’t usually have overnight guests at my place, preferring to wake up alone and at my own speed. But last night, I hosted a huge charity gala for homelessness or something like that, and well… I got a little drunk.
Which is also an anomaly, since I’m not big into how an overindulgence of alcohol makes me feel. I hate losing control, so drugs are out of the question. But my fucking college roommates were in town, and I invited them to the gala. Big mistake. They’re both big drinkers. By midnight, I was sloshed from trying to keep up with them while we reminisced about the good old days.
I’m still not sure how the blonde ended up in my penthouse suite at the Blackwood Vegas, but as her mouth currently has me on the edge of orgasm, I’m not going to lament on it. I’ll just chalk it up to drunken misfortune, something that rarely happens in a way that works out so well.
I don’t lack in my choice of blondes—or brunettes, redheads, or raven-haired beauties—who will get down on their knees for me. As a member of The Wicked Horse Vegas—a premiere, hedonistic sex club—I get my rocks off quite frequently in a variety of ways.
But again, morning blow jobs are definitely underrated, although this one is well deserved. While I might not remember exactly how she got up here with me last night, I do remember fucking her on three separate occasions throughout the night and fuck if I can remember how many orgasms she had, but it was a lot.
I’m good at what I do, just as she is at what she’s doing right now.
The blonde hums in the back of her throat. Perhaps it’s a sign she’s enjoying what she’s doing, or she just wants me to feel the vibration down to my balls.
I most certainly do. After only a few more moments of vigorous sucking, my hips shoot off the bed. With a relieved growl, I come down her throat.
I don’t even have time to enjoy the waning rumbles of pleasure rocketing through me before the woman crawls up my body, cuddling into me. It pisses me off.
Nuzzling her face into my neck, she coos, “Hope you enjoyed it, baby. There’s more where that came from. Maybe we can eat some breakfast in bed first, though.”
And… I’m out of here.
I’m not a cuddler.
I don’t do post-coital murmuring, and I definitely don’t share my thoughts with strangers.
I managed to bring a woman to my home who has me set firmly in her sights. By that, I mean she’s envisioning a future with the infamous Declan Blackwood.
I’m renowned for my skill at fucking. Women often get downright stupid after a night with me because I’m good at getting them off, but this blonde is cuddled up to me because of my last name.
Blackwood is about as close to American royalty as you can get. Blackwood Hotels and Resorts are the world’s leading luxury hotels, frequented by queens, presidents, and sheiks, as well as by the world’s elite one-percenters. My name is worth billions. No doubt, this stranger has fantasies about being a part of that dynasty.
Gently, but with due haste, I put my hands on her shoulders, press a quick kiss to her cheek, and untangle myself. “That was great, but I have to get to work.”
It’s the truth.
I may be a rich playboy who makes more per hour from the interest on my investments than most people do in ten lifetimes, but I work hard for my living. As one of two heirs to the Blackwood fortune—and the only one destined to continue our legacy after our father dies—I take my duties seriously.
The blonde stares at me incredulously as I roll out of bed. I should feel a pang of guilt if this is coming across as insensitive, but I don’t. I’m not being intentionally harsh or dismissive of her feelings, but I realize why she’s still in my bed, her expression one of keen disappointment. It’s for my money and nothing else.