“Say it,” he says.
My pulse punches between my legs. “Say what?”
“That I can put my mouth on you.”
Coño.
Every dirty, angry part of me lights up.
“You can put your mouth on me.”
His hands tighten once, like the permission hurts. “Thank fuck.”
Then his mouth is on me.
My head falls back against the pillows. A sound tears out of me before I can bite it down. He groans like he feels it in his own body, like my pleasure has teeth in him. He licks me slow, deep, filthy, then looks up when I curse and does it again.
“Shady.”
“Tell me.”
“Do not stop.”
“Would not fucking dream of it.”
He treats me like a lock he has been dying to pick, tongue and fingers working together until I lose the thread of every thought except yes, more, there. Every sound I make pulls another curse from him, rough and low, like my pleasure is turning him feral one breath at a time.
I grip his hair. He likes it. I know because his eyes close and his hips press hard into the mattress like he is trying not to fuck the bed.
“Look at you,” he says against me. “Bossy until I get my mouth on this sweet pussy.”
My whole body clenches.
He feels it.
“Yeah,” he growls. “You like that.”
“Pendejo.”
“Your pendejo.”
“Not yet.”
He laughs against my thigh like the man has a death wish.
I make a furious little sound when he pulls back.
“If you have a reason, it better be medical.”
His smile turns wicked. “Condom.”
“Fine. Responsible men are annoying.”
“Only outside the bedroom.”
“Prove it.”
He does.
