Chapter 16 #2
“You’re not even pretending anymore.”
“No.”
He turned my stool until I faced him fully. By the time my knees parted for him without being asked, my breathing had already changed.
One hand settled on my thigh. The other braced on the counter beside me.
“You know what I like about you?” he asked.
“What?”
“You tell on yourself with your eyes.” His thumb slid once over the inside of my knee. “Those pretty amber-brown eyes be saying too much.”
“Maybe I was thinking about French toast.”
“Liar.”
I laughed, thin and breathless. “You are very sure of yourself this morning.”
“No.” His eyes dipped to the bare length of my thighs under his shirt, then came back up. “I’m paying attention.”
He reached behind me for the fruit bowl.
My brows lifted. “What are you doing?”
He dipped one finger into the whipped cream and looked at me like a man who had already decided to be a problem and was simply being decent enough to let me notice first.
“Breakfast.”
Then he went down.
My breath caught before his knees even hit the floor.
He set one hand at my hip and pulled me a little closer to the edge of the stool, just enough for the shirt to ride higher on my thighs.
I had nothing on underneath it. No panties.
No protection from his eyes, his hands, or the fact that I had walked into that kitchen wearing his T-shirt and too much confidence for a woman who should have known better.
His hands slid up my thighs and spread them wider.
The sound left me before I could stop it.
My bare ass stayed right at the edge of the stool while Micah settled between my legs like breakfast had always been headed here. He looked up at me once, dark eyes steady, and then that finger touched me.
Not my thigh.
My pussy.
He dragged the whipped cream through my folds slowly, spreading the cold sweetness over my pussy lips until my whole body jerked. My wetness took it instantly, turning the whole thing slicker, dirtier, more intimate than it had any business being in broad morning light.
“Micah—”
He didn’t stop.
His thumb pressed lightly at my clit, smearing a little more there, circling once with maddening slowness while his other hand held my thigh open.
My breath caught so hard it hurt.
He looked up.
Hungry. Focused. Quiet in that ruinous way that had already become his signature with me.
“Tell me to stop.”
I looked at his mouth. At the finger still gliding through whipped cream and me, making a filthy little mess of both.
“Don’t insult me,” I whispered.
He laughed low and brief.
Then his tongue touched me.
And all thought left.
He licked the whipped cream away slowly at first, dragging his tongue through the sweetness he had spread over my pussy lips, then up, then back down again, taking his time like the whole point was making me feel it before he really got started.
Cold turned warm. Sweet disappeared under his mouth.
My body jumped every time his tongue found my clit and circled it with just enough pressure to make my legs threaten to close.
His beard scraped softly against the inside of my thighs. One hand spread harder over my hip to keep me steady while the other pushed my thigh wider and held it there.
The first real flick of his tongue against my clit made my legs shake.
The second made me grab the edge of the island.
The third had me reaching under the shirt I wore, palms finding my own breasts because I needed somewhere for all that sensation to go. I caught one nipple between my fingers and rubbed hard.
A broken sound left me, and his mouth answered immediately, licking deeper, broader, meaner, like he had been waiting to hear exactly that.
“Damn,” I breathed.
He looked up once, tongue still dragging over me, and the sight nearly sent me over by itself.
My hand stayed under the shirt, tugging at my nipple until it tightened painfully under my fingers. That sharp little ache mixed with his mouth between my thighs and his hands holding me open was too much and still not enough.
He sucked. Licked. Flicked. Slow one second, relentless the next, like he had nowhere else to be.
My thighs tightened around his shoulders, and he made a low sound into me, one hand sliding to my stomach to keep me open when my body tried to fold in on itself.
“There,” I gasped. “Right there.”
He stayed there and took me apart piece by piece.
My head fell back. One hand stayed under the shirt at my breast. The other finally gripped his head because I needed something to hold before the whole room tipped.
“Dammmmm...please—”
He didn’t look up this time.
He just made one low sound against me that vibrated through my whole body, then slid two fingers inside me, deep and sure, curling them with the kind of practiced precision that made my breath snap in half.
The heel of his hand pressed against me while his mouth stayed on my clit, and that combination was so filthy, so exact, my whole body lost any last claim to dignity.
“Micah—”
My voice broke on his name.
He kept going.
Finger-fucking me slow and deep, curling just right, dragging that rough little sound out of me every time he hit the spot that made my thighs shake. My hand tightened under the shirt at my breast. The other stayed on his head because I needed something to hold on to while he took me there.
Then it hit.
Hard.
My whole body locked and opened at once.
I exploded hard enough to arch on the stool, and the release rushed out of me in a hot spill all over his fingers, his mouth, the inside of my thighs.
I heard myself cry out before I could stop it, helpless and loud and gone so far past shame it almost felt holy.
He stayed there.
God, he stayed there.
Lapping at me. Sucking. Dragging his tongue through every wet, trembling aftershock of it while his fingers slowed inside me and then slipped out slick and shining.
He looked at his hand once, dark eyes gone even darker, then put those same fingers back to my pussy and gathered more of me just to lick it away.
From me.
From his hand.
From wherever I had made a mess of him.
That sight nearly sent me over again.
By the time he finally stood, I was breathing through my mouth and staring at him like the city should have stopped for a second out of respect.
His mouth was wet.
His chin too.
Whipped cream and me.
I reached for him without thinking, caught his face in both hands, and leaned in to lick my own taste and the last sweetness off his mouth.
His eyes went dark on contact, and the sound he made sat one half step from losing every decent intention he had put on that morning.
“Dammit, woman,” he muttered.
I smiled, still breathless, still shaking a little, and rested my forehead against his.
“No,” I whispered. “Your breakfast.”