Her hands fist in my shirt, dragging me tight to her. “Don’t stop. Just… don’t.”
That, I can do.
I slide my hands down, grip her thighs, and lift—not a huge haul, just enough to tip her back so she’s sitting on the edge of the dresser, skirt riding up, legs opening for me. She’s so soft under my hands, sturdy and warm and fully present, like she’s never even entertained the idea of playing coy.
The sight of her, skirt bunched, paint-splattered dress stretched tight across her chest, hair tumbling wild and cheeks red—it’s almost enough to knock me flat. But instead I drop tomy knees, the move so automatic I don’t even think about it. The floor is cold and hard, but it grounds me, sharp and real, and that’s exactly how I want this.
Her knees are spread, feet planted, and I fit myself between her thighs, palms sliding up her calves and over her knees, anchoring us both. I pull her toward the edge, flush with the dresser, until I can feel the heat radiating from her. My hands slip under her dress, up and up, tracing the strong lines of her thighs. She shivers, but doesn’t break my gaze.
I push her skirt high, exposing her. She’s wearing underwear, but it’s already damp, the dark cotton clinging to her curves. I can smell her, sweet and sharp, and it makes me greedy.
She watches me, head tipped back slightly, eyes bright. I press a kiss to the inside of her knee, slow and deliberate. Her breath hitches, a little sound I want on a loop for the rest of time.
“You sure?” I ask, even though her body is writing the answer in all-caps.
She cups my jaw, thumb rough against my cheek. “If you stop, I’ll never forgive you.”
I grin, can’t help it, and swipe my tongue over her knee, all the way up her thigh, teasing her because I want to hear her beg. She’s not shy about it, not even close. Her hands tangle in my hair and she pushes me closer, guiding with zero patience.
I press my face to her inner thigh, nuzzling, inhaling the scent of her, letting the anticipation build. My thumbs hook under her underwear and I drag them down, slow enough she can feel every inch. She lifts her hips to help, the move confident and urgent and so fucking sexy, I almost lose it right there.
Her cunt is gorgeous: soft, flushed, wet and swollen with want. I don’t look away—I want her to see what she does to me. She’s breathing hard, chest heaving under that ruined dress, and her hands are in my hair, trembling with it.
I kiss her, just above, just below, teasing, letting my breath ghost over her clit until she’s whining, fingers tight in my hair.
“Jordan,” she pleads, a warning and a prayer.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
Her hand tightens. “Don’t tease. I need you.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
I lick her, slow and deep, dragging my tongue from her entrance all the way up to her clit. She jerks, a full-body shiver, and the sound she makes is raw and perfect. I do it again, learning the taste and shape of her, tongue mapping every soft fold. She’s soaked for me, slick and hot, and I cannot get enough.
I set a pace, relentless but steady, lapping at her clit with flat, broad strokes, then circling, then flicking, listening to every sound she makes. She’s responsive as hell, hips rolling to meet my mouth, thighs clamping hard around my ears every time I hit the spot.
I slide a finger inside her, slow at first, curling up to find the sensitive spot on her front wall. She takes it easily, greedy for more. I add a second finger, twisting gently, and she opens for me, desperate and so fucking real.
Her sounds are getting wild now, high and keening, but not embarrassed, not holding back. She rocks against my face, fucking my mouth, and I let her. I want to be used; I want to be the thing that undoes her.
She comes fast, honest and violent, one hand over her mouth like she’s trying not to wake the dead, the other scrabbling against my scalp. Her legs lock around my head, and she shakes, hips grinding against my tongue.
I keep going, fucking her through it, not stopping until she’s limp and wrecked, sweat streaking her cheeks and that beautiful dazed smile breaking open her face.
Her hand is gentle now, stroking my hair, grounding herself. I kiss her thigh, then her clit, gentle, savoring the taste of her.
She catches her breath, then tugs me up, hard and insistent. “Your turn,” she says, voice wrecked and gorgeous.
She yanks me up to stand between her legs and pulls me into a kiss, sucking my bottom lip into her mouth and biting, just enough to make me gasp. Her hands find the waistband of my work pants, working the button open with the competence of someone who’s been thinking about this for a while.
My whole body is a live wire, every nerve ending screaming for her. She shoves my pants down to mid-thigh, just enough for access; I’m not even sure I care if my boots are still on. I’m wet, throbbing, desperate for friction, and Maddie knows it. She grinds against me, no hesitation, skirt hiked up around her waist, her bare, slick cunt pressed right against my boxer briefs.
She cups me through the fabric, slow and possessive, squeezing until I groan, forehead pressed to hers.
“Need you,” she whispers. “Want you to come for me.”
My hands are everywhere: digging into her hips, fisting her skirt, braced on the dresser so I don’t collapse from the want. She reaches into my shorts, finds the slick heat of me, and slides her fingers through, rubbing slow and careful, then hard and fast.
