“Well, I guess you’ll just have to deliver this last hurrah by going down on me.”
That worked, too. She was kidding, but suddenly I wasn’t. “Mission accepted.”
“What?”
“That plan works for me.”
Actually, itreallyworked, judging by the bolt of lust that struck at the notion of having my head between those legs I had been admiring for so long. But I played it cool. I took her bourbon from her and set it on the counter. Her eyes had gone wide—had she not expected me to call her bluff? “Get yourclothes off and get over here.” I detoured around her to the bed, taking off my T-shirt as I went.
When I turned, she was still standing by the counter with her mouth open. “At least take off your pants,” I said. “I think that’s the minimally acceptable degree of nudity required for what you’re asking for.”
When she still didn’t move, I started to worry that maybe she’d gotten cold feet. So I sat on the bed, trying to make myself less, I don’t know… looming. “Hey. You OK, Miller?” At some point, I wasn’t sure when or who’d started it, we’d taken to addressing each other by our last names.
That broke her trance. “Yeah, yeah. It’s just that you’re being so… clinical.”
“Did you want me to romance you?” I wasn’t sure if I was teasing or asking earnestly. And if she did want me to romance her, I wasn’t sure I should do that. Or if I even knew how. As much as I didn’t want it to be, maybe my initial instinct had been right: this was a bad idea.
“No, no!” she said, and started pushing her pants down. She was wearing tight, cropped yoga pants, and she either hadn’t been wearing underwear or she snagged them along with the pants, because when she stood… there she was. Her thighs were muscular and meaty and gorgeous. I couldn’t stop looking at them. I’d seen her in a leotard before, and two different swimsuits, so I wasn’t sure why I was so dumbstruck at the sight of some well-defined quads. I let my gaze rise slightly. Maybe it was her thighs in combination with the points of her hips and the thatch of pale hair between her legs. I smiled, realizing I’d half expected it to be pink-tipped like the hair on her head. By the time I was done with my fond ogling, she’d shed her shirt.There was the pink—in the form of a bra. It was darker than the pink in her hair, and it was a no-frills number that looked like it was made out of cotton. She wouldn’t want me to say it, but with the pink hair and the pink bra, she did not look like a crone. She looked like the girl lost in the woods who would be lured in by the crone. She looked cute enough to eat. Which, happily, was exactly what I planned on doing. I shed my sweatpants—unlike her, I didn’t need to be pantsless for what was about to go down, but suddenly the idea of Sourplum’s bare skin on mine was all I could think about. I shot her a wicked smile.
I thought maybe she’d get shy. Women sometimes did that, and who was I to judge? The patriarchy, man; that was some weird shit.
But not Sourplum; she strode toward me, turned, and said, “Can you undo my bra?” Apparently she’d decided to embrace the “clinical” nature of our encounter—though I intended to disabuse her of that notion. Without “romancing” her. It was a fine line, but there had to be a sweet spot between “romantic” and “clinical,” and I was determined to locate it.
Her back was as leanly muscled as you’d expect given the state of her legs. I launched Operation Not-Clinical-But-Not-Romantic-Either by standing and brushing my hands down from the corners of her shoulders diagonally toward the center of the bra’s band. She hissed a breath in—good. As I worked the clasp open, I allowed myself to check out her butt. It was, like her thighs, thick and muscular.
None of this should’ve been surprising given her line of work, and given what I’d already seen of her clothed, butdamn.
I decided I didn’t care if I came off as clinical. I needed my face in there, stat. So I slid the bra off her shoulders, turned heraround, and gently pushed her to sitting on the edge of the bed. “Scooch back,” I said. I was surprised when she did so without any sass, propping her upper body against my pillows; I was downright shocked when she let her legs fall open.
With her pink-tipped hair fanned out against the white pillowcases and her muscular body that I was apparently growing increasingly obsessed with casually splayed on my bed, she looked like a painting. A beautiful, obscene painting. I had the idea that crones were supposed to be wrinkly and ugly, but at that moment, she sure as hell looked like she had the power of the universe at her fingertips.
I checked myself. This wasn’t the first time I’d compared her to a painting, and I needed to cut that shit out. Waxing poetic about paintings, even just in my head, was sliding a little too close to the romantic end of the spectrum here, so without further ado, I stretched out on my stomach and lowered my mouth. I started with her inner thighs, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the smooth skin there. I tuned into the noises she was making: little sighs and, when I experimentally let one hand float up and tweak a nipple, a shriek that was almost a scream. Once again:damn.
Gradually I made my way to her center, and she let loose a long, low moan when I first parted her and made contact with the hot, delicate flesh there. I had to reach a hand down and press down on my dick to get it to calm down a bit. I worked her with my tongue, but I had this odd sense of missing the thighs I’d just been kissing. And then I had a genius idea: I looped my arms under her legs and closed her thighs around my head like I was closing a book. Like I was closing my head, my entire being, inside the greatest book ever written.
Shit.
I needed a pause. And I liked the idea of drawing this out for her as much as possible, which I suppose is a nicer way of saying I liked the idea of torturing her. If this was her last hurrah, she should go out with a bang. A big one.
I pulled back gently. She made a squeaky noise that sounded like a cross between the word “What?” and a generic sound of protest. I shushed her as I moved up to kiss her stomach. Mm. I had thought I was so into her legs, but she had a great stomach, too, sleek muscles visible under soft skin.
“Ahh!” She was frustrated, which was where I wanted her. It would pay off later. I lazily played with a breast while I willed my body to chill out. She had small, perfect pink-tipped nipples—pink again; was pink my favorite color now? When she tried to reach for me, I batted her hand away. “We’ll do me later.”
“That’s exactly what you said in the woods.”
I hadn’t realized that, but my logic was the same. I didn’t want her to stop, to lose her footing on the track she was on.
“If we’re ‘doing me,’” she said, “can we get on with it?”
“Hey. I’m just trying to stretch things out a bit. If this is your last hurrah, it’s gotta be good, right?”
“Fuck off, Teddy.”
I chuckled and continued lightly massaging her breasts, and she seemed to surrender to my plan, to the frustration I was deliberately cultivating. With a groan that was half pleasure, half dismay, she let her head loll back.
“There you go,” I murmured, and after a few minutes, I let my other hand drift south, finding her slick and hot. Jesus.
“Teddy,” she whined, chasing the pressure of my hand with her hips, and oh how I wanted her to do that same thing to my mouth. Oh how I wanted to get back inside my book made of thighs.
