Chapter 11 #2
He toys with the hem of my shorts, slipping a thumb just underneath, so close to where I need him. I wrap my hand around the seatbelt pre-emptively, waiting for that moment when he teases my clit and the world’s knocked out from under me.
“Remember when I told you what I wanted to do to you? Put these”—he digs his fingers into the meat of my thighs, making me gasp—“over my shoulders and eat your perfect little cunt?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Holden shifts in the small space. Peppered kisses trail down my stomach, and he bites at the ruched waist of my shorts.
On instinct, my hips lift, and Holden tugs them down without hesitation.
I think they end up on the floor, but I haven’t taken my eyes off his face—the enraptured look in his eye—long enough to know for sure.
Leaning in, he rubs his nose down the soft fabric covering my pussy and breathes me in on the painstaking drag upward. He’s consuming me like an illicit drug, taking everything he can get. The low growl when he comes up for air sends a frisson up my spine.
“Show me.” Pupils blown out with lust, he stares up at me. His voice is wrought with desperation.
My limbs are heavy, but I work up the strength to shift my underwear to the side. “Like this?”
“Just like that, angel. You’re doing so good.” Holden takes one of my legs and slings it over his shoulder, followed by the other. He turns and presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. “Are you sure about this?”
What a time to ask, when my bare pussy’s centimeters from his face and I’m so wet, I’m making a mess of the seat.
If I dwell too much on whether I’m sure, it’ll sink in that this is wrong.
And if it sinks in that this is wrong, my conscious won’t let me continue, and I’ll probably confess to Logan, and—
“I’m sure.”
His tongue drags up my slit, and a low rumble carries up from his chest to fill the humid air. I gasp. My spine tingles. My throat swells with a stuck breath.
He moans against me as if he’s enjoying the act of giving as much as I am receiving. He’d be content with doing nothing but tasting me. It’s a five course fucking meal to him.
Then he makes contact with my clit, and all at once I’m fighting for more while simultaneously needing to get away.
Not enough. Too much. If it weren’t for the heavy hands on my hips, pinning me to the seat, I’d be bucking against his face.
But my heels drag down his back, and I sink both hands in his hair, tugging at the root.
I’m half agony, half pleasure, and when his finger strokes inside without warning, I become a sobbing, shaking mess. He follows up with a second finger, chasing it with a devastating swirl of his tongue around my swollen clit.
All the pent-up need unfurls in an orgasm so intense, my legs quiver uncontrollably on his shoulders. My entire world flips end over end, shattering and rearranging the pieces of what I know about myself. Everything has changed in an instant.
He keeps licking through the come down, arousal-coated fingers kneading lovingly against the place on my hips where his thumbs had kept me fastened to the bench seat. The spot feels hot and sore—probably bruised.
“God, Sunday. I want to—” He luxuriates in a long, slow lick, despite my thighs clamping together around his head.
I swear to God he’s never looked hotter than he does now, staring up at me with shiny lips and a devilish look in his eye.
“I want to bottle this up. Your smell, your taste, fuck.” He shakes his head and dives in for another swipe of his tongue.
“Holden.” I use the grip on his messy hair to tug his eyes up to meet mine. My breath comes in short pants, barely slowing enough for one whispered adjuration. “Kiss me.”
The taste of my cum on his tongue, mingling with the mint on his breath, invades my mouth in a desperate kiss. His hands skim over my body, everywhere he touches coming alive.
“You know what comes next, angel. In our texts.” A smile twitches his lips as he adjusts my wet underwear to cover me back up.
I do. I’ve read them no less than fifty times.
Suck it first. Get it nice and wet.
“Get it out,” Holden instructs, sitting up with a pained look. He yanks his shirt off and tosses it to the floor. “Take my cock out and get it wet for me.”
My fingers fumble with the silver belt buckle, then the button at the top of his jeans.
I keep waiting for him to get impatient and push my hands away, but Holden’s only gliding his rough palms up and down my legs.
He grazes my pussy with a gentle brush of a finger, and I lose my focus all over again.
After too long, my thumbs finally catch on his jeans, tugging them down, and Holden coaxes me through it with a gentle, yet controlling, tone. “That’s a good girl. Pull my boxers down, too. See how hard I am for you—fuck, I want to feel your hands on me.”
I know I came less than a minute ago, but I could go again if he simply bent down and whispered those filthy words next to my pussy.
I do as he says, shimmying his boxers down his hairy thighs until his cock’s freed. It’s huge, and demanding, and precum shimmers on the broad, pink head.
I’m pretty sure I’m simply staring in awe, jaw slack. There could even be drool. And eventually he whispers, “Touch it, Sunday.”
I start by tracing a finger down a protruding vein that runs the length of his shaft.
He inhales a sharp hiss, followed by a guttural moan when I wrap my palm around him.
His cock’s weeping with need, and without hesitation, I swipe my thumb through the clear droplet and bring the salty liquid to my mouth. Holden’s eyes hit the back of his head.
I sit up a little more, bending my back as much as humanly possible. I want him in my mouth. Want to do as he says. But also, I’m no contortionist. I took a yoga class a few years ago, and the instructor told the entire class I was the most inflexible person they’ve ever met.
“Trust me?” I ask.
“With my life.”