Chapter 21 #2
She didn’t hear me at first. I stood there, swaying slightly, watching her stir custard like she was caressing it. Then her eyes lifted, and she saw me. I knew she could see it all over my face. “You’re drunk,” she said simply—not an admonishment but a truth.
“Coffee?” she offered, already moving toward the machine. “You should eat something.”
I stepped forward. “No.”
She paused. Looked back.
I said it low. Gravel. “The only thing I want to eat is you.”
She dropped the spatula in the bowl and then slowly turned to face me, a look of questioning and shock on her face. But she didn’t say no or shut the fuck up or some other brush off like I was expecting.
I crossed the kitchen in three strides. I put my hands on her hips, not gingerly like the other morning in the kitchen. Then, I had been pretending to be good, to be uninterested—until my fucking boner gave me away.
But now, I fully gripped her, lifting her with ease, and set her on the cool marble island. Her knees parted instinctively. Or maybe for me. Maybe for this.
“Fitz—”
“Don’t,” I rasped. “Don’t say anything unless it’s yes.”
She didn’t answer. Just leaned back on her hands and let her knees fall further open. That was all the invitation I needed.
The cover-up fluttered higher up her thighs as I stepped between her legs, my hands already pushing the hem all the way up.
Her legs were so damn smooth, sun-kissed, warm to the touch, and if I were a more patient man, I would just slide my hands back and forth from her knee to her inner thigh, worshipping her skin—if I wasn’t so goddamn desperate for more.
When I got all the way up, I sucked in a breath at the sight of her. Soft sheer pale yellow panties dipped in a V that just barely covered her. I could see the bathing suit lines where her tanned stomach became a softer creamier tone.
I touched her first through the cotton with my thumb—dragging it through the slick heat between her legs, up and down, teasing, slow. I could already feel dampness there, the thin cotton panties sticking to her slit like her body had been waiting for this too.
I hooked my fingers in at the edges. She lifted for me, just a little, enough, and I peeled them down slowly, dragged them past her knees, and dropped them on the floor. She watched me, her ocean eyes swimming with heat, mouth open slightly like she’d forgotten how to breathe.
My mouth was dry. My cock was already rock hard against the seam of my zipper, aching with the kind of pressure that bordered on pain. But I wasn’t interested in my dick at the moment; I was hungry for her.
She was slick and bare and swollen already, folds glistening, her clit peeking out in a perfect bead of pink. I reached between her legs with both hands and parted her, spreading her open like a goddamn feast. Her breath hitched again, her back arching, the pink of her flushed and wet and perfect.
“You taste like heaven, don’t you?” I sighed, half to myself.
Then, I dipped my finger into the bowl of warm lemon custard sitting next to us on the counter. I swirled it around in the bowl and then I dragged it down her slit.
She gasped—sharp and high. That spread of custard on her pussy was fucking indecent, and I’d rather die of gluttony than live without it.
I spread her folds, smearing it on her pussy. The creaminess glistened, beckoning me to devour her. So I did. I dipped down on my knees and took one perfect lick, running my tongue through her folds to her clit.
She cried out. Not loud. Not soft. Just real.
And then I buried my face in her. I licked up the custard and her arousal, swirled my tongue flat and slow from her entrance to her clit, then flicked the swollen bud with the tip of my tongue until her whole body shivered.
I pulled back, just for a moment, licking my lips with her sweetness on them. “Tasty, cupcake,” I said with a smirk, thinking back to the post-it note I’d left her all those years ago.
Then I slid one and then two fingers deep inside her—hot, tight, gripping me instantly—and put my mouth on her clit, sucking gently as my fingers curled up, finding that place that made her whimper like she hated herself for needing me.
“Fitz—fuck—oh?—”
“That’s it,” I murmured against her, fingers plunging deep and steady, my tongue circling her clit with slow, torturous rhythm. “Say my name. Nothing else.”
She moaned louder.
Her hands fisted in my hair, pulling me closer, dragging me deeper like she needed me inside her, mouth and soul and everything.
I let her use me. I wanted to be used. I wanted her to come all over my tongue and remember for the rest of her life that no one, no one, would ever worship her the way I could.
I worked her like I was made for it—tongue and fingers and grip—until her thighs were trembling around my ears and her perfect little pussy was spasming around my fingers as I lapped at her clit.
When she came, it was messy and beautiful and fucking seismic. She bucked hard, clutching the edge of the marble, the muscles of her stomach clenching as she cried out my name, raw and wrecked.
I kept licking until her hands finally pushed me away, weak and shaking.
Then I stood up. Licked my fingers. Licked my lips. She stared at me like I’d stolen something—or given her something she couldn’t return.
I was still hard. Obscenely. Painfully. I didn’t hide it; I just looked her dead in the eye. Then turned and walked upstairs without a word.