Soul Siren by Aisha Duquesne

he was thin but long. Erica let out a slow, steady warm breath, and his cock stirred, hardening until he was a hot brown pillar, and she saw him grit his teeth but still show no embarrassment or modesty. Or affection.
    “This is not,” he said firmly, “the way I want or need to be compensated.”
    She grabbed him—literally grabbed him—at the base of his cock, and while the motion surprised him, tugging him off his heels and forward a step, she didn’t hurt him. “That’s a shitty thing to say! Take it back.”
    Amazingly, he said, “No.”
    Her fingers softened on his flesh, and she began to stroke him, keeping him hard, her other hand feeling the strength in his chest, lightly dancing over the silvery hairs.
    “You don’t think I feel something for you?” she asked indignantly.
    “You want to bring me down just like you’ve done with other fools,” said Morgan. “I know your type. Yeah, sure, hon, it’s an enormous compliment that you thought of me for your recreational amusement, but I told you, I can see the wheels turning. It just sticks in your craw that you’re getting all these lessons, and I haven’t tried to feel you up. Doesn’t it?”
    She couldn’t speak. No man had called her on this in her entire young life so far, and here was Morgan, naked as a babe but wiser than sin, catching her out. She took him into her mouth.
    He laughed cruelly. “Come on, stop. You won’t be happy until I fit your definition of an asshole. Everybody must want something, huh? Is that it? So you came out to prove it with me? ’Kay, Erica, I do think you’ll become famous. You got the talent. And you’ve got the attitude already. You don’t need folks swarming around you, begging for favours to make you jaded. You’re there.”
    He stood there waiting for her to deny it. She didn’t. She sucked him, tenderly cupping his balls in the palm of one hand. At last, she let him go.
    “Morgan, I’d believe you if you weren’t hard as rock.”
    He lifted her to her feet and kissed her then, hard, passionate, wet and presumptuous. Erica laughed. Not at him but because his beard tickled her chin. She found herself being lowered onto the couch, and as she felt the muscles of his back, he pushed up her skirt and stripped off her panties, his light brown hand with its pianist fingers pressing on her mound, her juices coming in a tide of astonished lust. Erica was trying to pull her thin top over her head but got as far as her breasts before he entered her in a rush, and she keened loudly. She was willing his hands on her breasts, to feel her nipples as he thrust harder and harder inside her until she screamed, and the echo bounced off the dark brick chasm of the freight elevator shaft.
    “Morgan, honey, come into me—”
    With a groan, he rolled away.
    “Morgan?”
    “No.”
    She saw that his cock was still hard, his chest heaving, the tiny white hairs glinting in the illumination from the lamp, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes shut tight as he struggled for control. She thought he might ejaculate then and there as he fought his own desire. He had taken her to an exquisite high then had torn himself away from the brink of his own release. She didn’t get it.
    “You were so good,” Erica was whispering. “Let me make you—”
    “No…”
    “Come on,” she said, reaching out to touch his penis before his hand gently but firmly intercepted it. “Is it because of—?”
    “No, not because you’re his daughter,” he groaned. “None of that shit. You got me as far as this, okay? Satisfied?”
    “No,” she pouted. “I think I’m in love with you.”
    “Don’t be stupid.”
    She touched his face, caressing his cheek. He allowed her to, but even this tender gesture made him harden even more. His control had been amazing, was amazing. She wanted him back inside her—
    “We have work to do, you and me…” He was still panting. “We can do this, but…I’m not going to get the