19. A Little Blood Never Hurt Anybody #2
My hand feeds through his hair not a moment later, and my legs spread wider to embrace him and his ravenous appetite.
He gently spears me with the foreign intrusion, parting my blood-slicked folds, venturing past my tight ring of muscle to curl his tongue against my inner walls.
My back arches automatically, mewls resonating in the half-lit hush of the kitchen.
There’s a dexterity to his movements that could never be achieved by a battery-operated boyfriend, and I can feel him grin against my leaking entrance every time I pet that yawning ego of his.
He savors my tremors, sucks all my gush into his mouth whether it’s clear or opaque, and doesn’t come up for air despite having his nose smushed against the hilt of my pubic bone.
Sutton’s practiced tongue dances around my G-spot, drawing my orgasm out and relishing in the hungry way my cunt pulses around his tongue. I watch his back muscles ripple with quiet power as he eats, frenzied, much like a dog that’s subsisted off scraps up until this very moment.
Dewdrops of sweat stamp down my baby hairs while my heart thuds against the brunt of my ribs like a trapped bird flapping its wings in outrage. The cramps have momentarily returned, but it’s not because of a biological pitfall.
Sensing that I’m either about to crush his skull between my legs or pass out from the lung-crushing stimulation, Sutton withdraws from my cunt to massage a bite mark into the meat of my thigh, suckling hard enough to leave behind teeth imprints and a bruise-colored rosette.
Fuck. Can I be cock-drunk if his cock isn’t even out?
Everything feels wet and sticky. I glance down momentarily to catch a flash of red, but it’s hard to really assess the bloodiness of the battlefield.
“You like your kisses down low, Trouble?” he asks with an unpolished gruffness to his tone—one that would promptly put a baby in me if my body wasn’t actively working against it.
“Oh, fuck. Yes, Sutton,” I moan as more arousal pours down the insides of my thighs, stoking the fire sitting heavy in my belly.
I rotate through shades of pain and pleasure, building up my tolerance with each lick he withholds, and my previous disquietude has been upended by a steady trail of kisses leading to my puffy, aching clit.
“Never needed anything so badly. I can’t—I can’t think straight. Nobody has ever made me this wet.”
“I love it when you look down at me.” I can hear the simper in his voice. “So fucking pretty sitting on my kitchen counter with your legs spread open like this, gushing uncontrollably.”
A laugh escapes me. “It’s unsanitary.”
“Don’t care. You’re the best thing I’ve eaten in this goddamn kitchen.”
I clearly underestimated Sutton’s greed because he sheathes his tongue back inside me after he’s done torturously marking me up like an artist’s canvas befallen to late-night epiphanies.
Every torque is precise, powerful. My grip on him turns wild and desperate, so much so that I feel like I have enough strength to rip his shirt off Hulk-style. I’m beginning to hit a wall, and my spotty vision renders his silhouette in an unfocused blur.
“You have to—I’m gonna come,” I warn him, grinding my hips against his face, fucked-out to the point of no return.
Sutton doesn’t have to employ the help of his fingers. He can do it all with his mouth, and that’s truly a gift from the Man Upstairs.
“That’s the idea,” he rumbles against my apex, his tone thickened with everything I’ve given him to swallow. “Just let go, Lake. I’ll catch you. I promise I will.”
But I should’ve known Sutton wouldn’t let me finish without one last trick up his sleeve. He applies the slightest bit of pressure when he presses down on my lower belly, urging the floodgates to open. And they do. Violently.
Counter lacquered beneath me and resolve wilting like petals under a glut of untouched snow, I release a hot stream of cum into his mouth, so lost in my haze that I don’t even realize I’ve spurted a fair amount onto his chin in the process.
His stamina is almost as impressive as his lack of need for oxygen.
After I finish squirting all over his face, the ache that was tearing up my uterus has mysteriously disappeared, and I’m heaving for air while I simultaneously hook my fingers under his chin and force him to look up at me.
His eyes are heavy-lidded, and the area directly around his mouth is colored in crimson, yet he still licks his lips like a recently fed predator.
There’s blood on his canines when he smiles.
Nothing like a little self-consciousness during post-nut clarity. “Was that…was that okay?” I ask, hoping that he wasn’t putting on a performance just to make me feel better.
“Baby, that was better than okay. That was everything a man could’ve ever dreamed of.”
I shirk away from his praise. “You’re just saying that.”
“I promise I’m not. And just to prove it to you, I’m about to give you another orgasm.”
Sutton slides me off the counter, hoisting me onto his hips so he can carry me wherever he pleases. I feel so safe in his arms. Everything about him is sturdy, and I’ve been looking for stability ever since the world crumbled beneath my feet and suspended me over a jagged scree.
“I don’t know if I can have another,” I murmur.
“You can—you just haven’t been with the right person. I’m determined to fix that, and baby, I can go all night.”
Five orgasms. That has to be some kind of world record, right?
I never knew the human body was even capable of five orgasms. And if this is how Sutton treats me on my period, I can’t imagine how he treats me when my vagina isn’t gushing blood.
I feel his large body sidle up against my back, curving around me in a protective cocoon as his arms wrap around my waist and his hands splay against my lower belly.
No matter how our relationship progresses, it dawns on me that Sutton Whittaker isn’t just a footnote in my convoluted story. He is my story.
Affection tugs at my chest when I scoot my butt against his front.
His heart is a steady wallop against my spine, and the warmth of his breath fans over my neck.
His squeeze is tight but not suffocating—his unnatural height doing him a disservice and somehow shrinking the California king bed we’re in.
My mouth purses into a frown. At least Sutton can’t see the expression on my face—some dreaded mixture of guilt and embarrassment that ironically galvanizes me to make my qualms known.
“I’m sorry this wasn’t really…ideal. I know it probably tasted bad,” I whisper, the thought of Sutton disliking any form of intimacy between us hollowing out my stomach.
I feel him rustle around in the sheets, as if the move itself could be indignant. “What are you talking about? It didn’t taste bad. You have nothing to apologize for. I had a great fucking time, and I’m glad I was able to help you feel great too.”
The cramps did go away due to his home remedy.
It takes a weighted pause for me to marshal a new response. “I just wanted it to be pleasurable for you. It wasn’t how I imagined things going.”
Sutton perks up, and I can hear the grin in his words. My indirect compliment must’ve resurrected some hard-won pride. “You’ve imagined this?”
“Maybe too many times.”
“I’m hoping I was stellar in each iteration.”
“You were. I think it’s annoyingly ingrained in you.”
His nose brushes the alcove of my neck—a silent gesture that says he’s here, and he doesn’t plan on going anywhere any time soon. “You were perfect. This is the most vulnerable you’ve ever been with me, and I couldn’t have asked for more.”
My unsubstantiated worries fizzle out, replaced with a new brand of contentment that allows somnolence to descend upon the coziness of Sutton’s bedroom.
I’m in one of his baggy T-shirts. The only thing I’m still wearing that belongs to my original wardrobe are the questionable granny panties providing full pad protection. Unfortunately, they don’t cover up the sound of the intermittent crinkles when I move.
For someone who’s been a longtime fan of dick, tampons are…I just don’t vibe with them. Don’t even get me started on toxic shock syndrome. I read an article about it when I was thirteen and never looked at those miniature cotton missiles the same.
Nobody has ever made me feel like I did a good thing by staying here on this earth. Sutton, though, he rewards me every day because that’s just who he is. I’m starting to really fall for him. Like, a no-climbing-ropes kind of fall.
I need to lighten the mood. I don’t take compliments well. At least, not the deeper-surface ones.
“Careful, if you keep treating me like a princess, I may start to love myself again,” I joke, feeling his palms twitch over my abdomen, where they’re playing guard and staving off any more period cramps that come my way.
Sutton’s voice is so quiet that I’m unsure if I hallucinate what he says to me. The drowsiness in my limbs is starting to pull me under, my eyelids are sagging, and the loud, overbearing, superimposed voices in my head are fading with every unresisting step closer to sleep.
The fear of the future and the pain of the past don’t exist when he’s got me lovingly embraced in the present.
“One day, I hope I can help you get there again.”