Chapter 10 – Pookie #2
"You fucking like this mouth?" Andy asks, breath ragged. He slaps my cock roughly against his lips, my precum dripping from his slick lips. "You gonna come for daddy?"
"I'm gonna fuckin' come for..." I can't say that word. "Yeah, baby." I lean forward just enough to grab him by the back of the head and force him back down on my cock. "Fuckkkk."
"You're such a good fucking girl," Braxton groans. "Such a fucking good little cock slut."
"Mmmm-hmmm," she hums, her mouth full of his cock.
Braxton slaps his hand on my thigh, and I assume it's an accident.
But it just stays there, his fingers digging into my flesh as his bottom lip contorts sideways, breathless.
I cock my head fully to the side, unable to fight this feeling anymore—this feeling to watch him like this, at the mercy of this girl he barely knows.
His throat dances, his Adam's apple bobbing in and out.
His fingers dig deeper into my flesh, and I can't bring myself to care.
Andy does something with his tongue, flicking it against the underside of my crown, that sends me into a wobbly spiral.
And then he takes me all the way into his mouth while a hand crawls beneath my balls, toying with them.
My body arches deeper into the couch, my thigh pushing harder against Braxton's.
Braxton turns to me, a blank expression in his deep blue, dilated eyes.
We're both racing towards breaking, a train that can't be slowed down.
I swear our chests are rising and falling in tandem as a chorus of slurping and plopping fades until all that's left is our ravenous panting.
His hand crawls upward and to the inside of my thigh, dangerously close to caressing my balls.
He says nothing.
I'm even quieter.
Lost in the trance that is his eyes, that is his gaze searching mine.
A quiet begging, but I'm not exactly sure what he's begging for.
Andy taps his tongue over the head of my cock and I find myself pulling away from him, at that point where I'm equally desperate for release as I am to feel this feeling for as long as possible.
When you're so fucking close to coming, but so lost in the ecstasy of a warm mouth pulling you inside out.
Ecstasy.
The drug, or something like it.
I'm not sure I'd feel like this if it wasn't for the ecstasy.
Sex has never felt this fucking good, like this stranger's mouth is going to change my life forever.
But what if it's not his mouth?
What if it's something even more forbidden?
What if it's the way this straight boy, my new best friend, is looking at me as we're both getting the best head of our lives? What if it's not the head at all?
Braxton inches towards me, his lips trembling with the sexiest fucking little moans I think I've ever heard.
I inch closer to him too, close enough until our noses brush against each other, until I can taste his breath on my lips, the same strawberry-minty freshness.
Harsher, though. Tastes a little like a salty hunger.
"Pook—" He stops himself, his bottom lip parting and then closing. He chokes on something he can't quite bring himself to say. "Fuck." He grabs a handful of the flesh at my thighs. "I'm going to—"
"Come?" I question, breathless. "You're gonna—"
He cuts me off with a kiss, his lips sealed over mine.
He clamps down, sucking at my bottom lip.
Soft at first, and then harder. An earthquake builds within and trembles from my mouth, moans dancing on his wet lips.
I close my eyes, giving in to whatever the fuck this is, and I swear I'm back at the club, dancing under the neon lights as Braxton grinds behind me.
The touch of his fingers sends sparks of ecstasy through me—setting my skin on fire, kindled by something I think I'm too high to name.
"Fuckkkk," he cries into my mouth, his tongue flicking over mine. "I..."
Our kisses are somehow wetter than our dicks, messier too.
And then I'm breaking, coming down the back of Andy's throat. Braxton lets out a hot gasp, singing through his own orgasm, his moans dancing over my lips like the electronic beat of a remixed pop song.
We stay like this for a moment longer, our lips held together by nothing more than the strained weakness that follows release.
My heart skips every other beat, and I think back to the very inappropriate thing my mom once told me when I was a young kid—that an orgasm is the closest most will ever come to a heart attack.
I feel a panic settle in.
A heart attack incoming.
Or at the very least, a heartbreak.
Because I don't want this night to end. This magical, drug-fueled, depraved night.
An hour later, Sienna is passed out in Braxton's bed while Andy is sprawled out on the couch, face down with his ass out.
Braxton sits on the ground out on the balcony, wearing only his boxers.
I take him a glass of ice-cold water, which he accepts graciously.
He takes a long gulp, sets the glass down, and slaps his hand on the concrete.
I take a seat beside him, my body crying for sleep while the world inside my head is still spinning.
I look out to the city, down below and high above.
Millions of people, and in a post-drug haze, I consider how much of my life I've wasted.
All these fucking people, and I wonder how many of them have the same regrets?
The sound of a lighter flicking steals my attention, and I glance over to find Braxton lighting a cigarette. He offers me the pack, and I shake my head.
"I don't smoke," I say, trying to hide my disdain. Cameron was a smoker. I'd say it was one of the worst things about him, but honestly, it was probably the most palpable thing about him.
Braxton takes a long drag, looks out at the city, and exhales. A cloud of smoke dances in front of him, but it doesn't sing like everything earlier in the night did. The ecstasy must be wearing off.
He drops his arm around his knee, smoke billowing from the cigarette. "I don't smoke, either."
I just nod.
"Only when I'm drunk." He cocks his head sideways with a smile that's starting to do somethingto me. "Or, you know, when I'm fucked the hell up. It helps me wind down."
"I see." I hold out my hand, and he obliges, passing me the cigarette.
I raise the cancer stick to my mouth and inhale.
It hits harder than I expected, forcing a ragged cough from the back of my throat.
Braxton grabs the cigarette back before I can drop it as I continue coughing, pounding my chest in a desperate attempt to make it stop.
"Another first?" Braxton chuckles and takes another drag. "I'm starting to think I'm corrupting you."
"Nonsense," I say, followed immediately by another hoarse cough.
But, uh... yeah, he's right. I've had a lot of firsts tonight. I'm pretty damn sure this entire night is the very definition of corruption, not that I'm complaining.
I kick my feet out to stretch my restless legs. They dance against the railing of the balcony. "Do you do this all the time?"
He raises a curious brow. "Party."
"Lose control."
"You're cute." He snorts with an amused chuckle. "Do you really think I'm ever in control?"
I'm aware I'm clinging to a past that doesn't let me choose, but I err on the side of being cautious.
My life up until this point has shaped this necessity to consider the consequences of actions.
I too often find myself in a tireless loop of wondering what my life would have been like if I had rejected Cameron's advances the first time he approached me.
There's this theory about sliding doors.
Every choice we make opens another pathway, and the choices we don't make are a life we'll never have the chance to live.
I look him straight in the eyes. "Are you ever afraid you won't be able to stop?"
"I think maybe we see the world differently.
" He shrugs. "We're young. This is the time we're supposed to be reckless.
We're not supposed to have everything figured out.
It's okay to lose control sometimes." He finishes the cigarette and scrubs it out on the concrete.
"I don't buy into the puritan nonsense. We only get to live once, and I'd rather feel like I've lived. "
"Yeah..." I trail off with a yawn, and it's like I can feel the wheels in my head slowing down, can feel the sweet release of rest coming on. "I think I'm going to crash."
He waves at me. "See you on the other side."
I climb to my feet and grab my glass of water. "Did you have a good birthday?"
"My birthday is in December," he says, deadpan.
I very specifically remember him coaxing me into going out tonight by claiming it was his birthday. "But you said—"
"I know what I said," he says, just as flatly as before.
"So you lied," I respond, and it's not a question; it's an accusation.
His gaze peels upwards, an uncharacteristically serious look in his eyes that are more tired now than dilated. "You're welcome for the best damn night of your life."
I slide the door open, but instead of going back inside, I hesitate for a brief moment, contemplating what I want to say.
On one hand, I hate liars. On the other, I know there's no way in hell I would have gone out tonight if he hadn't lied.
I regretfully settle on being grateful. "Thank you," I say quietly.
He peers upwards with that shit-eating grin that is as infectious as it is disarming. "For?"
I return the smile. "The best damn night of my life."
He responds with a breathy laugh. "Goodnight, Pookie."