17. Saint
Saint
I t’s well past three A.M. and I’m still leaning against the headboard, bottle to my lips as another slug of whiskey burns its way down my throat. I’ve been drinking and staring at the ceiling for hours, the entire time fiery green eyes and plump lips stare back at me in challenge.
Always in fucking challenge.
The deeper Hendrix gets under my skin, the harder it is for me to shake her. Even more now as I have her all to myself, counting every twitch of her freckled nose and gentle snore.
For a girl who claims I thrive on torturing her, Hendrix had very little problem falling into the deepest sleep of her life next to me. It took less than five minutes for her breaths to even out after we got into bed.
Hendrix wore the blanket over her like armor, but now? She’s got it thrown off almost completely. I watch as her legs widen, revealing a glimpse of the boyshorts she’s been hiding behind another one of her superhero T-Shirts.
Talk about fucking torture.
My dick is already a painful blue.
I’m mid swig as Hendrix murmurs something, then leans her face my way, the tip of two fingers ghosting her pouty lips.
I spend every waking moment trying to ignore how beautiful she is. To bury it in the same places I do my sanity, along with everything she has the power to take from me.
My obsession with Hendrix has become a sickness almost as deadly as my mind.
Another reason to stay. The fuck. Away.
Before I let it take over.
She stirs, and my eyes dip to her waist, a sexy as fuck handful of curves more than ninety-nine percent of the girls I’ve been with had.
The fake hourglass most of them would pay thousands to achieve, Hendrix carries naturally, all the way to her hips.
It’s the reason every bitch in our school hates on her, and every guy I know secretly wants to fuck her.
But what’s on Hendrix’s outside is not the only reason I’m drawn to her. No…that pull between us runs much deeper.
Darker.
Parallel to gray and black.
Hendrix stirs again, and it’s a knee-jerk reaction when I throw the last of the whiskey back, placing it on the nightstand before shifting closer to her.
The world tilts on its axis, courtesy of the Macallan, but I still manage to graze my fingers along Hendrix’s thigh. Her skin is so soft, still so warm in spite of the A.C. blasting.
I continue exploring, this time along the top of her underwear, and watch as her stomach rises and dips in response to my touch.
She breathes a small, needy moan when I circle her belly button, and I revel in the sound.
Fuck.
Hendrix may lie, but her body doesn’t. Awake or not, it always responds to me.
My hands travel downward, and with a careful glance at Hendrix’s face, I gauge her reaction.
She’s still sound asleep in the same position.
My mind reels with every sick, twisted thought…each more tempting than the last.
I shouldn’t. Of course I fucking shouldn’t.
But what’s the alternative?
I may talk a big game, tread some dicey lines, but there’s a reason I’ve held myself back for so long—one I knew the second my knees hit the floor in that closet a year ago.
That Hendrix’s mouth would not only put her in danger but make her dangerous too.
My inhale is sharp as I remove the last bit of blanket still covering her leg, then turns full on hiss when I spot the flower tattoo between her pelvis and upper thigh.
A Zinnia, like her middle name.
I trace the outline of the petals with a finger.
Sleeping beauties don’t lie…or summon monsters. I try justifying the unjustifiable. You can get Hendrix out of your system and still keep her safe.
My hunger must outweigh my conscience, because I don’t even realize my thumbs are behind Hendrix’s boyshorts until they’re sliding down her legs.
She mumbles something inaudible, but doesn’t budge from sleep, and a small, much less despicable part of me is questioning how the fuck she isn’t. The rest? Well, that’s the part of me blinded by alcohol and starvation.
I toss the underwear behind me the second it passes her ankles, and gently guide her legs wider before lying between them. The position gives me unhindered access to Hendrix’s pussy, making it, and her , mine for the taking.
Enticing, sure. But my desire is more about the prize than the possession. Therefore, I take my time to drink in the view before me.
Similar to most women I’ve been with, Hendrix’s pussy is smooth, the main difference being the short, triangle of hairs above her pubic bone.
I’ve always taken myself for a guy who preferred a cleaner slate, which is why finding out this detail shouldn’t be bringing on this uncontrollable hunger.
But it does.
And I choose to believe worse things will happen to my little Jimi Hendrix if I don’t do something about it soon.
My face dips between her legs, and my God Hendrix’s scent.
Her fucking scent is a toxin I’d breathe willingly.
And her flavor, a poison I’d drink just as fast.
A little salt mixed with sweet explodes on my tongue as I lick a gentle line up her pussy, my groan in as much pain as my cock.
Hendrix can either sense me, or she’s dreaming, because her back arches with a moan, sending me too far off the edge to ever come back now.
So, with my eyes glued to her face I hold back nothing. Using my tongue to fuck, lips to suck, nose to prod her open.
I nibble her thighs, and Hendrix bucks, but for whatever reason, still doesn’t wake up.
And at this point, I’m counting on her to not.
I could never allow myself to relinquish control like this. Not with my hell and her fire-eating tendencies.
“Saint.” My name comes out as a whimper from her lips.
“Shhhh, Jimi. I got you.”
Reaching blindly for me, she moans my name again, the neediness of her unconscious having me ready to fucking burst.
With a brief pause, I wait, licking away the mess her arousal made on my lips until she steadies back to a deep sleep.
When she does, I continue devouring.
My moves are frantic, kisses are sloppy, and my hips thrust against the bed so hard my cock aches.
But I won't stop. No, I can’t stop.
Tasting, kissing, fucking myself into the mattress until Hendrix’s moans resurface as full on cries.
I know women orgasm in their sleep, hell, I’ve gotten off to watching a few. But not one of those shows compares to how erotic this is. Watching a girl like Hendrix, so headstrong, fall apart for me in her rawest forms.
With no choice.
No rebuttal.
Just the pleasure she will never admit she wants.
Her clit pulses against my tongue, my cock against the mattress, and I know it’s only seconds before we’re exploding for each other.
I nibble on her sensitive area, suck, then nibble again until finally, she’s unraveling beneath me. Then, with one final thrust into the mattress, I’m unraveling too.