Chapter 34 House of Vice — Side A #5
With both thumbs, he parts her, then pulls her onto his face, soaked cunt slidin’ down until her slick opening’s seated on his tongue.
“Holy fuckin’ shit—” Talia folds right over his head, spine curlin’, hips jerk hard, losin’ all rhythm. “Fuck—fuck, baby—don’t stop—”
He doesn’t. Harding slides his tongue up to her clit, then flicks it fast, an almost vibrating pace—filthy, messy, expertly—knowin' exactly what she likes.
Until she's shakin' and swearin'. Until her eyes are rollin' back.
Until she's leakin' warm between her folds, drippin' down his jaw.
He drags his tongue through it with a low hum before goin' right back in, breath hot and tongue rough on her clit.
Every pass is sloppier than the last. And he loves it. She knows he loves it. He’ll think about this for the rest of his life. Because nobody else’s cunt ever made Andrew Harding drop to his fuckin’ knees and stay there.
She grips his hair tighter, shoves his face closer. He’s soaked in her mess, all hers now, and she swears she will be the last thing he’ll ever wanna taste.
Heat climbs so fast it’s burnin’ her up from the inside as he’s takin’ a lifetime’s worth of orgasms straight outta her body in one go—the intensity severe.
That's when it hits. A low, nasty growl rips straight from her chest—raw, feral, fuckin’ possessed. Her body locks. A whole fuckin’ wave slammin’ inside her, a fire exploding violent. Head thrown back. Body curled over, thighs clampin' around his head.
“Fuck—fuuuck—” She comes.
Right there. On his mouth. All over his face.
Drenched and ruined, his tongue’s workin’ her through it while she rides out every last spasm.
Time’s gone. Could be a minute. Or an hour.
She’s still pantin’, heart’s jackhammerin’, foot still hiked high on his trunk like a porno.
And he’s kneelin’ there, not rushin’, thumbs holdin’ her open, whole cunt in his mouth, eatin’ her clean.
And she’s starin’ down at him, hair wild, knees shakin’, thinkin’ he wouldn’t be cleanin’ her if he didn’t want to belong to her.
When he’s done, he kneels there in a daze. He’ll never top this again—head hangin’, chest heavin’, his whole mouth drunk off her. And for a second she swears he’s about to come undone or break down.
She watches him, heart poundin’, cunt still throbbin’, thinkin’ this is when he’ll say it. Now he’ll admit he's always been wantin' her.
But he doesn’t. He wipes his face—one slow sweep, her all over him.
Then he finally stands, refusin’ to look at her.
Because lookin’ means feelin’, and feelin’ means forever.
“You’re mine, Andrew,” she whispers, breath hot on his jaw, fingers ghostin’ over his zipper. “Don’t fuckin’ play—just give it to me.”
Her fingers barely graze the front of his jeans.
But his hand snaps out, knockin’ hers away, breath catchin’ like he’s about to break.
So she grabs his belt instead, fist tight, tuggin' him closer. “What—so you’ll eat my cunt but you won’t fuck me?” He knows the second he does, he’ll never be able to walk away. “You ain’t runnin' from this, baby. Not now.”
She palms his cock again, knowin’ he’s gotta be hard and achin’.
His jaw clamps shut, teeth grindin’ as he grabs her hips and whips her around fast, slams her right up against the trunk. Her palms smack down hard, catchin’ her balance, and a smile rips across her face.
She arches deep, legs partin’, skirt fisted high over her hips as she sways her ass from side to side. “Yeah, baby… just like that. C’mon, you know you been wantin’ this bad.”
He grabs her cunt from behind, fingers slidin’ through the mess he made, partin’ her folds, missin’ it already.
She hears his buckle unclip, the pop of the button, the zipper draggin’ down, and her knees go weak. Then his fingers thrust back inside her—two, no, three—fillin’ her up, stretchin’ her so wide she gasps.
“Gimme your cock,” she whimpers, rockin’ back on his hand as she soaks it, her slick drippin’ down his knuckles as he fucks her with his fingers. “I can’t take it anymore.”
Minutes pass. Maybe two. Maybe forever. She don’t count.
He’s too quiet. Until he’s liftin’ her leg high, settin’ her boot right on the bumper. Then her shirt’s goin’ up, bra too. Lifted clean over her head, tits spillin’ out, nipples hard in the night air.
He pushes her down, her next breath catchin’ in her throat, her bare chest hittin’ cold metal, nipples pebblin’.
And his thick cock nudges her entrance before sinkin' in.
One stroke, deep. All the way.
She gasps, eyes poppin' open, liftin’ up, back archin’, smile wild on her lips. “Ohh, f—fuck, baby,” she pants. “You feel so perfect.”
But he’s forcin’ her back down again, pressin’ her into the trunk, cockin’ her ass back, tiltin’ her cunt up, buryin’ deeper. No time to breathe. Wet, stretched, full, her moan rips outta her throat—loud, needy, soakin’ the air around ‘em.
He locks one hand on her hip, the other dips to her clit, grindin’ circles as he fucks her mad, fucks her furious. Every thrust yanks a cry right outta her throat, forehead pressed to the Civic, tits draggin’ across steel.
“God, baby, fuck—keep goin’, fuck me filthy—”
She’s starin’ at the night sky thinkin’ she was right about them as he drives his cock into her again and again, sinkin’ so deep she feels him in her mouth.
Every moan slips out sloppy, her spit stringin’ across the red paint.
But she don’t care. Because Andrew Harding is inside her.
Every stroke lands heavy, heat splashin’ down her thighs.
“God, Harding, you fuck me so good, swear I was made for this—made for you.” But the sound of their skin’s louder, hips smackin’, cock draggin’ slick outta her with every thrust ‘cause she belongs on his dick. And she always did.
“Shit—fuck—I’m comin’,” she cries, and he stays.
Deep. Unmovin’. Fingers rubbin’ filth-slick circles right over her clit.
Her moans break into a cry. Her legs shake. Her tits scrape metal. Her knees slam against the bumper. She comes so hard it’s drippin’ off him while his fingers still stroke her clit, slick with her mess ‘cause he don’t wanna leave. She just knows it.
And she’s sighin’. “You love me. I know you do.”
When he slides out, she melts—arms stretched wide across his trunk, cheek to the metal, breath foggin’ up the paint. Cunt raw. Legs limp. Arms danglin’ after he fucked her outta her body.
She hears him behind her—buckle clinkin’, zipper hummin’, the little car beep.
Then the soft thunk of his back door openin’.
He reaches inside, pulls out a jacket.
Then he’s standin’ behind her again, wipin’ between her thighs.
Careful. Gentle.
Her breath hitches ‘cause nobody’s ever cleaned her up before.
“C’mere,” he says, handin’ her the bra.
She don’t fight it as he pulls her shirt back down.
“That fuckin' do it for you?”
She’s got no words, a breathy sigh leavin’ her as she melts against the trunk again, her heart and lungs all left behind on his tongue. She’s still face-down, high off him.
Yeah. It fuckin’ did.
He brushes her hair off her face. “Stay here. Breathe a sec. I’ll grab us water,” like they’re some couple post-fuck at a beach house or somethin’. “Two minutes. Don’t move.”
She smiles into the metal, skin buzzin’.
It doesn’t sound like a promise—it fuckin’ is.
He locks the car from the inside.
And she lays there against his trunk, dead-limbed, starin’ at his back, watchin’ him go—hands shoved in his pockets, head dipped low, a bassline in his bloodstream.
The Harding walk.
All Jersey-born and trouble-bound.
She watches every step as he walks away, steps echoin’ in the garage.
Watches ‘til he fades into the night.