“Mm.”
“You came over here for a reason.”
“Yeah.”
He gives me a coy grin. “What’s the reason?”
I smirk at him, leaning back and pulling my sweater over my head.
His mouth opens.
The grin dies.
The lace bra is black, sheer enough that he can see my nipples through it, and cut low enough that the tops of my breasts spill over the edge. And beneath me I feel him get harder still, the pressure of his cock against the wet lace making my breath catch.
“Sloane.”
“Yeah.”
“You—” He shakes his head once. His voice is rough. “Jesus Christ.”
I try to bite back the smile, but can’t totally smother it. I’m sitting on top of the most composed boy in the state of Vermont and I have made him forget the English language, and he is looking at me like I’m something he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch.
“You can take it off,” I say, trying to be nonchalant. “Or you can leave it on.”
“Leave it on,” he says, with no hesitation, as his thumbs trace the lower edge of the lace.
I shiver, and his mouth follows his hands, gently claiming my neck, my collarbone, and the swell of my breasts above the lace.The whole time, his stubble drags against my skin, and I arch into him and grip the back of his head, and I am not quiet about it.
I pull at his T-shirt, and he sits up enough to let me drag it over his head, and then his chest is under my hands and oh,oh— I’ve been watching him in jerseys, but now the muscle under my palms is real and his breathing changes when my hands explore.
He reaches behind me. The bra opens. One hand. No fumble.
“Show-off,” I say.
He slides it down my arms, and then his mouth is on my breast — tongue flat against my nipple, then circling, then the edge of his teeth, and my vision blurs at the edges — and his hand is palming the other, thumb rolling slow, and I’m grinding down on him.
I moan.
I could come like this.
I almost do.
But I want more.
I slide sideways off his lap, pushing him back against the cushions, and then lean down and tug his sweatpants and boxers low enough to free him. I pause, because he’s hard and flushed and big, but then I lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, base to tip.
The sound he makes — guttural, startled — is the best thing I have ever heard in my life.
I take him in my mouth and take him deep, and his hand comes to my hair, not pushing, just holding on, and his hips lift off the cushion and push him deeper into my mouth before he catches himself.
“Sloane — fuck?—”
I circle the head with my tongue, and his hand tightens in my hair, and then his other hand slides between my thighs from behind, pushing the lace aside, and his fingers find me — wetand swollen — and I moan around his cock and feel him twitch against my tongue.
We find a rhythm. My mouth on him, his fingers working. Every stroke of his fingers sends a current through me that makes me suck him harder, which makes him groan, which makes me wetter, which makes his fingers slide easier.
“Stop,” he says, his breath turning ragged, pulling gently at my hair. “Or I’m going to come, Sloane.”
