Track No. 10 You Don’t Own Me #3
“Damn. Aight, no patience, huh.” He chuckles, glancin’ off. “You single?”
Her eyes fall deadpan. “Yes. I’m single.”
The second she whispered hot in his ear, he was no longer the guy fucked up over a dead kiss. He’s Magic Mouth—one door away from center stage.
As soon as they reach the bathroom, and that lock clicks, he’s hauling her up onto the counter.
Her ass hits the laminate, and her legs stiffen around him, thighs drawin’ in tight, stuck in that space between wantin’ it and overthinkin’ it.
He knows from the jump she ain’t lookin’ for a fantasy.
She’s either got a crush or probably never been eaten right, and she’s dyin’ to know what that’s like.
But he ain't touchin' her until she's sure. So he stands between her spread thighs, hands hooked into his back pockets. She can reach for whatever she needs—his waist, his chest, his shoulders, his neck if that’s where she feels safe.
Anywhere but under his clothes. Anywhere but his dick.
Sweetheart wants his waist, both of her hands lockin’ around his sides. As she pulls him closer, he follows, his hands leavin’ his pockets and findin’ her knees.
“You don’t owe me shit, alright?” he says into her neck, hands slidin’ up her thighs, takin’ her skirt with ‘em. He moves carefully, trackin’ every skip in her breath.
“Don’t gotta do nothin’ for me. Don’t gotta be nothin’ but you.
” He’s starin’ at his reflection in the mirror as he says it, wishin’ that was true for himself.
Her thighs melt, fallin’ open, and that’s all he needs.
“Yeah? You lettin’ me in, sweetheart?” he still asks. “Gimme the green light. ‘Cause once I get a taste of what’s under here,” he runs his fingertip up the middle of her panties, “I ain’t fuckin’ stoppin’.”
She nods, and he lines her up the way he likes—knees up, thighs spread, pussy laid out, dead center and on display for him.
Girls hide shit. Sometimes it’s nerves. Sometimes it’s shame.
Sometimes it’s insecurity, somethin’ they think he might change his mind about. But worse, sometimes, it’s contagious. So, nah. If he’s goin’ down, he’s seein’ everything first. Spread her so wide she can’t lie or hide.
She don’t gotta be perfect, only safe.
He’s got her knees pinned back, pink lace stretched tight over her pussy. “Fuck,” he murmurs, eyes locked on the damp spot. “You gettin’ wet just from thinkin’ about this, huh?” He hooks the edge of her panties and slides ‘em aside, revealin’ a pussy that’s bare, wet, and beggin’ for his mouth.
Pink, thin folds, no padding—clit jumpy and sensitive to the point of pain. Papercut Pussy, he calls this type. Delicate, yet dangerous if mishandled.
He only names 'em 'cause pussies are all unique, and they all need to be touched differently.
“Ay, you tryna kill me with this?” he rasps, lookin’ for anything off—bumps, breaks, spots, sores. He knows what healthy looks like. He’s been clean too long to get lazy now. “You got the prettiest fuckin’ pussy.”
Andrew tells them all this. Ain’t none of ‘em ugly. Pussies come how they come, and you take care of what’s in front of you.
Meanwhile, he’s analyzin’ everything. Is she breathin’ right? Does she flinch? Is she really here, or just sayin’ yes out loud but gone like him?
She tips her hips up into his hand. “You want it to be yours tonight?” she teases. “Bet you like hearin’ that, huh?”
His thumb dips and presses against her opening, then slides up, collectin’ drip from hole to clit. “Don’t need to hear it,” he says, liftin’ his soaked thumb, a cocky-ass grin heatin’ his mouth. “Already fuckin’ know.”
He smells her first, then sucks her arousal off his skin.
Look, smell, taste—a triple health check before his mouth goes anywhere. If somethin’s off, he’s out. Call it instinct, but he trusts his gut more than anything and likes to believe his three-for-three ritual’s the reason he’s stayed clean ten years runnin’. Never broke that rule for nobody.
“Mmm… Goddamn, you taste good.”
He’ll tell every girl this, too, even if it ain't true.
Head lowerin’, he glances up with a smirk, the illusion of lookin’ at her face, but his gaze stops at her neck. He can’t meet her eyes. The second he does, girls look down hopin’ it means more. And he ain’t got more. He’s not here to manipulate ‘em or confuse ‘em. He’s only here to please.
He traces the inside of her thigh with his lips, edging closer. “Pretty pussy, wet as hell, and you’re lettin’ me get drunk on it.”
Her knees drift wider, hips tiltin’ up. “So… we talkin’ magic pussy, or what?” she asks, voice foggy. “This the one that’ll ruin all the girls who come after me?”
He laughs, brushin' his bottom lip across her clit, watchin' it jump. He ain't answerin' that. He ain't feedin' that sick little lie that says she gotta compete. That she's only special if another girl loses.
Once he gets started, she’s moanin’ and sinkin’ into the counter.
He knocks out the first orgasm fast. Non-negotiable, in case shit goes sideways. Interruptions, bomb goes off, whatever. He ain’t lettin’ her die or walk out with nothin’, regrettin’ it, or have a reason to say it was average.
The first orgasm is a guarantee.
The second is expected.
The third a luxury.
Any more after that? A bonus.
The second he clocked her scent and taste, he blocked it out.
That’s the second purpose of the three-for-three ritual.