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“You are so out of practice, Weston,” Bryn teases, body finally migrating back to mine. “How do you expect to keep up with our pup?”
“I’ll work on it,” I mirthfully state while pulling her into me.
“Promise?”
It’s impossible not to wind my arms tightly around her prior to resting my forehead gently against hers. “Promise, little prey.”
Chapter 22
Brynley
I just wanna leave an important note in today’s Captain’s log.
Getting mouth banged on the way to a mandatory gala for work absolutely defeats doing a word search in the pre-event time passing battle.
Especially when your future husband eats pussy like it’s his last meal on earth before he takes flight in the morning.
Not that Wes flies.
Or is willing to fly.
Or is even willing to discuss the idea of flying.
Fuck, when that shit came up in therapy – all because Stella thought it was important that we approach our honeymoon with the same expectations – I thought he was going to fire the doc on the spot.
Turns out that it’s a really not to be touched subject.
We’re talking locked up in his comic book vault’s vault’s vault.
And unlike her – who gets paid to try to pick those types of brain locks – I simply surrendered.
Suggested he talks to Sawyer about it and pushed onward.
I don’t wanna fight more than we already have to.
Unless it’s the sexy type that ends with one or both of us naked eating chocolate covered strawberries in a warm, Epsom salt bath – since bubbles aren’t allowed according to Hamilton.
Between him and the man I – typically – adore my “do not do while pregnant” list is growing nine times faster than my waist size.
Wes releases a throaty groan and grips the outside of my thighs noticeably harder.
The harsh vibrations add to the voracious lashings in such an irresistibly delicious nature that I’m left with no choice but to latch on tighter to the freshly tussled locks my recently manicured nails refuse to relinquish their hold over and feverishly grind into them, random strands of hair instantly coming loose from the nonstop pleasure-filled head whipping.
“More,” slips free between increasingly breathless pants. “More, Weston.”
Ravenous rolls are ceaselessly delivered around and around and around my clit, only momentarily breaking to indulge in short sucks that have my toes curling in my black lace up heels. The points on my stilettos savagely stab at his shoulders blade, barbarously carving my pleas to come into his black dress shirt; however, each scrape he receives sparks a brutish grunt.
And every grunt gets buried deeper between my thighs.
And the deeper they get buried the more determined he becomes to unearth them.
To free the sounds by frantically diving his tongue in, desperate to rescue them from the darkest depths where they’re likely to fall off climax’s cliff.
His feral determination and devotion and dynamism pushes him to transition away from torturous teasing to sheer, unmatched devouring.
Withstanding the unrelenting undulation swiftly spikes to impossible levels as my bare ass practically levitates off the limo seat, powerlessly being summoned upward into the carnal cloud of cries I can’t stop creating.
The higher I get, the more furiously his tongue works.
