32. Penelope
The man is possessed.
I’m not even kidding. The way he licks his lips and stares at my pussy like it’s a perfectly cooked, Michelin star steak verges on deranged.
It took him under three seconds to get naked, and it took me about the same because he told me if I didn’t hurry up and get naked he’d cut my clothes off, and I don’t have spares here.
He has me spread out under him on the bed, legs wide as his thumbs peel me open for him to enjoy. It’s a slow process, he’s taking his time, even though the glint in his eye is giving me the Joker and Harley Quinn vibes.
“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?”
“About six weeks?”
He snorts. “Sure. We’ll go with that.”
He periodically runs his tongue around his mouth and flexes his jaw. I’m guessing that’ll take some time getting used to. Can’t blame him. That was a long and brutally painful recovery for him.
Something catches his eye on the bedside table, and I’m not sure if I should be glad of the extra moment to prepare myself for the assault of his tongue on my clit, or if I’m disappointed.
“What’s this?”
He picks up the tiny duck from the bedside unit.
“It’s a duck,” I answer, trying my best not to laugh as he presents the small, bright blue duck with an orange beak in front of me.
“I can see it’s a duck, what’s it doing in my room?”
I shrug, brushing it off as though I’ve never seen the duck before.
“How many?” He cants his head, eyes narrowing which just makes it even harder not to laugh.
“How many what?” My voice is shaking with amusement, I’m about to burst—in more ways than one.
“Tell me, She Devil. How many of these little fuckers have you hidden around this room?”
I roll my lips, shaking my head from side to side with innocent, wide eyes.
“It’s more than the room, isn’t it? It’s the house. Fuck. You’re a nightmare.”
I’m not expecting his fingers to pinch my clit, but the squeal that bursts out of me is obnoxious.
“How many?”
There’s a small chance I spent a little time today while most of the guys were out, placing over two hundred and fifty ducks around this house. Well, not the whole two fifty, I put maybe fifty of them in his dorm room so when he moves back and thinks he’s got them all and the ducks are a distant memory... quack, quack.
They’re everywhere, from nestled in the corners of picture frames and clocks, to hanging out in his condom drawer.
“Tell me or I’m not eating you out.”
“Liar, liar tongue on fire. You’re practically drooling. It’s physically hurting you not to have your face buried in my pussy right now. There’s no way you’re not eating me out.”
He growls. “Fuck off.” He tosses the tiny duck back onto the bedside table and groans. “Fuck. There’s another one.” He points to the green baby duck in his water glass. “That one could have choked me, Pitstop.”
“Maybe that was the point.” I shrug. “You’d have seen it before you swallowed it.”
He levels me with a hard stare. “You hope.”
I don’t expect the sharp smack on my pussy, but I also don’t hate it. The shockwaves that tinkle through my whole body are delicious. “I’ll have to think of how to get you back for this one, Pitstop. Finding a couple of mini ducks around this big house is going to be challenging.”
“Two hundred.”
He blinks up at me from between my legs. “You hid two hundred baby ducks around the hockey house?”
My body shakes with laughter. “Mmhmm.”
“Because still finding pieces of sparkly glitter from your bomb isn’t enough?”
“That was in your dorm room, not here.”
He nods. “I know. I don’t know what the hell glitter voodoo goes on but it’s everywhere, and I can’t get rid of it.”
“I love when your dick sparkles. It’s so pretty.” I flutter my eyes at him.
I’m not going to tell him that Mikko helped me with the itsy bitsy duckies because he’d probably kill his teammate, but it was a lot of fun for both of us to place tiny plastic ducks around the place knowing the team will be finding them for fucking months.
He wags his finger at me, but from where I’m lying it looks like he’s wagging his finger at my pussy and mumbling about how much trouble I am in and how he’s going to get me back.
Part of me shivers with salacious anticipation. He will get his own back on me, that’s the nature of a prank war, but knowing that he’s about to drive me fucking insane with his tongue has me all twisted up in knots.
“Maybe I don’t feel like it now, what with all the quacking.”
I prop myself up on my elbows. “Tate Myers, you either lick my pussy until I come all over your face or I’m going to start screaming help until someone else comes in this room. Then I’ll ask them to help a girl out.”
He pauses, studying my face.
“You know some of them have probably never seen a pussy and would be only too keen to learn.”
He holds up his hand. “Stop.”
“I’m more than happy to just lie here and instruct them on how to make a girl come.”
A snarl is the only answer I get before he legit face-plants into my crotch. Now I know where the term muff diving comes from.
Fuck. He’s truly possessed.
The grunts and groans from him as he spreads my lips and flicks my clit with his tongue are inhuman.
There’s no fighting his hunger, within seconds a thin sheen of sweat prickles across my forehead as I’m spearing my fingers into his hair and riding his face with abandon.
There’s a cramp building in my calf, but the way he’s eating me so aggressively, there’s no way I don’t come before the cramp hits. Fuck, he’s good with his tongue.
He’s slowed down a little, flattened his tongue, and he’s dragging it up and down my slippery slit like he has all the time in the world. But each time his tongue connects with my clit, my whole body trembles, a shiver slithers up my spine, and my hips buck against his face.
It’s not a thin sheen of sweat anymore, a thick bead of sweat has trickled into my eye and starts to burn.
“Mmmmm. Just come for me, She Devil.”
I don’t want to. My body is overloaded with the sensation of his tongue driving me closer to the release building in every erogenous zone I have. I want to live here forever.
“If you don’t come, I can’t make you come again.”
Fuck. He’s already planning the next one.
His words are slick, and he slurps at me in such an undignified way I should probably cringe, but it’s just erotic as hell.
When I detonate on his face, the rumble of satisfaction that reverberates through my body from his mouth is everything. Colors and sounds bleed into one, my vision blurs at the edges giving everything a hazy halo, and just as I think I’ve fallen over the edge and am floating back down to earth, he starts again.
This time, he adds his fingers inside me, stroking my g-spot in rhythm like I’m his favorite chord on the guitar.
Back to back orgasms—at least in so far as they’ve concerned me until I met Tate—are a myth. Any time I’ve tried to do a twofer, I got bored and frustrated. Once the first one’s over, the blissed-out tiredness hits your muscles, making them soft and pliable, but also impossible to get going again. The last thing I ever want to do is put all that work in again—even with a toy.
Not to mention, everything’s so fucking sensitive and overstimulated, that it all feels like raw electrical cables, and everything makes you jump and shiver and writhe. It’s never worked for me before, and as much as I want to tell Tate not to bother, I’m kind of curious if the last time was a one off or if he really can tell my body what to do.
I don’t really have much choice. My dude is already going to town, and while it’s taking my body a little time to reboot after being short-circuited by the lashing of his tongue on my go-button, there are sparks of electricity flashing across my skin.
My nipples are hard, and a deep ache is brewing in my core. My fingernails bite into his scalp as I hold him in place, my hips rearing to meet the cadence of his tongue. How he hasn’t drowned yet is anyone’s guess, but as long as he’s content to lap at my clit while fingering my g-spot, I’m content to lie here and take it.
Every now and then, he’ll break his tempo, he’ll drag his teeth across my clit making me shudder, or he’ll suck it into his mouth and pinch it between his lips. He’s not in a rush, he’s taking his time, building me up, and letting me down—just a little bit—before building me all the way back up again.
By the time he lifts his head up to talk to me again, I’m breathless, panting and pleading with him to let me come because I can’t take the teasing anymore. He grins up at me. I swear, no one has ever looked as hot with cum and arousal dripping from their face as this man.
“What’s that, Pitstop? I can’t hear you over the slurpy sounds your soaking wet pussy is making for me. You don’t want to come?”
Thumping the bed next to me, I whine. “Just let me come already, Tate. Please.”
He hums as he puts his face back between my legs. “I love when you ask nicely.” It takes less than a minute of his tongue and finger working in tandem before I burst into stardust and squealing. The second orgasm is deeper, more intense than the first and my legs clamp around his head with such force I wouldn’t be surprised if his head popped off.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This feels... like a rainbow formed inside my body and is trying to break free. He still isn’t stopping, I flop back on the bed, sweat streaming down my face, matting my hair to my temples, and just let him own me.
When I wake up a while later, Tate’s sitting on a beanbag on the floor across the room, seemingly naked, strumming his guitar.
“Why are you all the way over there?” My voice is thick with sleep, suggesting that it wasn”t just a fifteen minute nap. “And how long have I been out?” It all comes back to me. “Shit, did I hurt your face with my thighs?” I squeezed him pretty damn hard.
“I’m more than okay.” He jerks his chin at the bed. “You made a mess and were sleeping on the dry side.” His satisfied grin is like the cat that got the fucking cream. “And long enough. You talk in your sleep, you know?”
My eyes pop wide. “I do not.”
He chuckles. “Guess you’ll never know.”
I sit up in bed and pat the space next to me, it’s still wet. “You didn’t get to come.”
Shaking his head, he doesn’t stop plucking the strings. “Didn’t need to. Just needed to suck your soul out your pussy and make you see stars.”
He definitely did that. He licks his lips. “You taste fucking delicious, Pitstop. Only reason I stopped is because you fell asleep, and I didn’t want to violate your unconscious body.”
That’s oddly sweet.
I get up, put my clothes back on, and start stripping off his sheets. There”s time to wash them before we need to leave for dinner at his Mom’s. As I pull the sheets off, he strums the chords to You Belong with Me by Taylor Swift, I can’t help but sing along at the top of my lungs. There’s something about the way she crafts her songs that is addictive, the notes get under your skin and draw you in.
By the time he gets to the chorus, there’s at least two of his teammates singing outside the door, and by the second chorus, they’ve all burst into his room and are having a T-Swift singalong while he’s ass-naked on the beanbag on the floor.
When he starts playing Our Song, the room is uncomfortably full with anyone who has stayed in town for the holiday, and Tate’s boxers are draped over the end of his guitar—courtesy of Artemis—and two of the team have pulled the lyrics up on their phone because apparently they live under a rock.
It’s not an everyday occurrence, but my boy is happy. His jaw’s unlocked, he’s smiling with his friends while doing something he loves, and he’s letting it all hang out—literally.
It’s turkey day, and the day where Dad gets to hang out and heal his relationship with the Myers’. As much as I’m a little anxious, I’m also excited. I can’t wait to spend the rest of the holiday making new memories with my guy, his parents, Dad and Oli, and a delicious feast.