𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈

• 18 •

The oldest man I'd been with was eight years older than me. He was a medical laboratory scientist who I met through college mutuals when I was twenty years old. People say that the mature ones do it better and I never believed them until that guy popped up. I guess it just made more sense to me that young ones perform best since, well, they're young—freaky, passionate, and creative with high stamina and no shame. I heard that when a man gets older, the more personal sexual problems he gets. That doesn't apply to Keenan, obviously. As he carried me naked to his bedroom, legs around his waist, I was anticipating a mind-blowing session from a man twelve years my senior.

His fingers dug into my thighs and I would've flinched at the pain had it not felt pleasurable. The thick denim of Keenan's pants are rough against my
legs and I love it. My arms held onto his shoulders like his lips held onto mine. Keenan steered us through the halls. I paid no attention to the route. Its unfamiliarity's the least of my concerns.

We came to a stop. Knowing where the knob is located like the back of his hand, he swiftly opened the door. No seconds were wasted because in the next, we were inside. I couldn't make out the interior because it's dark and my mentor's face was blocking my sight. I knew, however, that the space is bigger than necessary. I heard a switch flick on and warm, dim lighting pooled from behind Keenan. As the man walked us to his bed, I closed my eyes and savored bare skin against skin—let the warmth embrace me and let the thick air of passion overtake my senses. I felt like drowning.

Keenan came to another stop. I felt myself be lowered until my back hit the mattress. They were like clouds, but I wasn't in heaven. No, this is better—I'm alive and I can feel everything. Something tells me, however, that by the time we're done, I'll be receiving an invite to hell from Judas himself.

As my mentor pulled away, he dragged his lips down the middle of my chest, down my stomach, and lower until they were gone. There was a moment of inactivity and I assume he was getting to his knees over the edge of the bed, ready to return the favor. I laid correct when he parted my legs wider, heels digging before the edge. My teeth gritted and ground as I anticipated Keenan's work. Is this man as good as he lets on?

I felt his breath against my entrance. That was enough for me to writhe—unlike I can help it. I then felt kisses, gentle and soft ones against my inner thighs. After that was a hand to my breast, a large one with strong fingers that desperately dug into the mound. It was enough to make me open my eyes. When I did, I was unable to stop myself from voicing two words:

"Holy shit."

There are a lot of things that make me say holy shit. In this instance, I have two: Keenan's mouth that suddenly met my sex and seeing myself on the ceiling. Specifically, my reflection on the ceiling. On a mirror. The mirror is on the ceiling. Keenan Travino has a large fucking mirror on his fucking ceiling. It seems that this cocky piece of shit likes to watch himself fuck and get fucked.

"What the—" I was breathless. The rest of the question trailed off when Keenan's tongue started working. He chuckled first at my reaction, and it was easily the most annoying yet sexiest chuckle I had ever heard. It made me wanna smack his head and fuck him upside-down.

I looked up. Insecure as I was, I wanted to look away but I couldn't. I watched myself on the bed, hair splayed across the white silk sheets. My lips were parted to accommodate deep breaths that held me together. Since when did I look so hot? My eyes narrowed at the woman on Keenan Travino's mattress, unable to believe that she is me. In a moment 
of lust, I watched her hands travel up her stomach, fingertips grazing sensitive skin until they reached her chest. Then, she gripped.