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“You’ll have me, sweet girl,” he breathes against my skin just before his lips press a lingering kiss there. “But I’m not looking to do this rushed, and if you keep touching me like that, it damn sure will be.”
“I meant it when I said I wanted to suck your dick,” I say petulantly, feeling robbed of the opportunity.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Not this time. I’ll never last through that. But I can do that for you.”
“But I don’t have a dick.”
I yelp again when he swats the side of my ass. It’s really becoming a thing for him. I wonder if he can tell just how much I fucking like it.
“Stop being a brat,” he warns, “and I’ll make you come.”
Holy hell. I’m dreaming. This must be a dream. Maybe I’ve died, even. Is this heaven? Would there be talk of orgasms in heaven? Actually, I don’t know if I want to go if there isn’t.
He pushes up on his knees, reaching to wrench his shirt over his head and tossing it somewhere on the floor, and my entire brain turns into goo because he has tattoos there too. My eyes drink in the black-and-gray lines of script and some sort of claws covering the expanse of his left pec, leading right up to the tight, pink bud of his nipple that I weirdly have the urge to suck on. I’m too horny to function, probably.
“Your turn,” he murmurs, fingers finding the hem of my T-shirt.
I’m worrying about what kind of bra I’m wearing, or if I remembered to shave under my arms this morning, and several other ridiculous things as he wrestles my shirt over my head, but when I see his mouth part, his throat work with a swallow, his eyes greedily taking me in wearing nothing but a bra—it’s pink polka dots, turns out, which isn’t terrible, all things considered—I forget to be worried about anything.
“Fuck, Lila, you’re…”
He trails off, eyes still moving over my body hungrily, making me desperate for whatever he was going to say.
“I’m…?”
He presses one thick finger between my collarbones, letting it drag slowly down over my sternum to the valley between my breasts as his breath stutters.
“Fucking edible.”
Honestly not what I expected, but judging by the way everything between my legs clenches, I’m apparently a big fan of the descriptor. I’m about to tell him to get down here and taste me then, but he’s already reaching for the button of my jeans, seeming in an awful hurry now, for someone who said they didn’t want to do this rushed. He’s so focused on the task of seeing more of me that I forget all about what’s waiting underneath the denim, right up until he pauses with my jeans shucked around my hips, pulling one of his hands away to brush a thumb against the soft skin by the bone there.
The pad of his thumb traces the soft colors, sliding over the pink icing, the blue wrapper, lingering on the little red cherry on top, his eyes growing more and more hooded with every second. “You really do have one.”
“I told you I did,” I say hoarsely.
“A cupcake?”
His voice is tight. “When?”
“When I turned nineteen.”
He presses against the cherry on top of the icing, flicking his gaze up to meet mine with an intensity that makes me shiver. “And were you thinking of me when you got it?”
“Maybe,” I answer quietly. “Just a little.”
“Fuck.” His entire palm covers the tattoo, his fingers wrapping around the fleshy bits of my hip and squeezing. “That shouldn’t turn me on, right?”
“Kinda hoping it does, actually, since I’m wanting to get to those plans you talked about.”
His body bends, and I suck in a breath, having no warning before his warm, wet mouth is pressing against the ink that his hand had just been covering.
“It does,” he mumbles into my skin. “Everything about you does.” He’s tugging at my jeans again, dragging them down my legs with an urgency that makes my nipples tighten and my pussy throb. “Wanna taste you. Want to know if you taste as sweet as you look.”
“O-okay,” I manage, my skin feeling tight with anticipation. “No complaints here.”
My jeans join his shirt on the floor, and my breath catches when he kisses his way back up my calf, against my knee, my inner thighs—pushing them apart before burying his nose against my underwear without any warning whatsoever to actually inhale me and making my back bow off the bed of its own accord. I don’t think my brain was ever capable of imagining this—this ferocity that he seems to have in the need to touch me, taste me—but it’s better than my imagination. It’s better because it’s him, because it’s real.
“Is this okay?” he asks directly to the increasingly wet fabric between my legs. “Can I?”
