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He lowers his mouth to my pussy and hovers there, just breathing. “Put it where?” he rumbles.
“There! Please...” I’m swaying, almost falling over.
“You want me to eat your pussy? Say it, Cleo. I want to hear you say, ‘Kellan, I need you to eat my pussy.’”
His mouth gathers over me again, and he puffs one breath after another into the fabric, like he’s doing CPR on my cunt. One time... two times... three. I’m so wet, I could die. His eyes flick up to mine, stern and expectant. I dig my nails into his shoulders.
When the fabric over me is soaked and sweat is beaded on my pussy, and the slickness in my slit is dripping like the icing off a cake, he stops and gazes up at me. “Last chance, Cleo. Tell me what you need, or I’ll assume I’m doing this all wrong.”
I grab his hair and yank hard. “Eat me out, Kellan. Eat my fucking pussy. Just do it right now!”
He laughs, pressing his mouth against me so I feel every vibration. Pleasure slices through me. I can feel it pulse deep in me, like I’ve magicked his cock right where I need it. Then he leans away, grins like a predator, and grabs my leggings at the seam that runs from the waist down to my crotch. With a quick jerk, he rips them open.
I can feel his warm, smooth forehead stroke down my lower belly, the bridge of his nose over my mound... Then his tongue parts my damp folds, delves inside, and—
“OH FUCK!”
That is all it takes.
I REPOSSESS MYSELF SLOWLY, as if I’m waking from a long sleep. I flinch at first blink—at the stock room, with its glaring light and stark aesthetic. But I’m more shocked at where my face is: nestled in the crook of Kellan’s chest and bicep. I blink a few times at the plaid of his shirt before my awareness shifts to the rest of my body. The first thing I feel is the hardness of his chest and thighs against me. The second: a cool sensation between my legs. It’s as if—
Kellan ripped my leggings open.
Kellan. Ripped. My. Leggings. Open.
I lift my head off him. I want some distance, but his face is right in front of me. I’m about to take a big step back when his hands, tucked around my lower back, drift up my shoulders.
“Cleo?” He smiles at me. It’s a small smile, but it’s real. Instead of falling off his face the way they seem to do so often, it kind of sticks there. “Hi.”
And even though we’ve probably only been standing here, tucked into each other, for a minute or two, it feels like something between us has shifted. I watch his face. He looks attentive. Interested. And, as a few more milliseconds tick by, kind of smug. Yes, definitely smug.
He smirks at me, and I feel the vibe between us settling back near our baseline. “How you feeling?”
I blush big time. And curse my father’s name. (My mother doesn’t blush; she says I got it from my dad). And feel ten times more awkward thinking of my dad right now.
“Damnit,” I mumble.
The smirk turns smile-ish, complete with a crinkling at the corner of his eyes. “What’s the matter? Tired?” He drawls the word, as if he’s proud he wore me out, then briefly grins. My stomach lurches.
He rubs his hair back off his forehead, then looks at me for a long, heady second before the world starts turning again. He clasps my hand, lacing our fingers together.
“You want to try a new strain?”
I laugh as he pulls me toward the door. “I don’t smoke.”
He opens his mouth. “Of course not,” he says richly. He smiles, fast and fleeting. “I don’t either.”
“Really?”
He pushes the door open, squeezing my hand as we walk back into the hall. “Rarely.”
“Why not?”
His eyes fix on my face. “Why don’t you?”
“I don’t know. It makes me sleepy. I blab secrets and eat up all the donuts. It’s not exactly conducive to doing good business—or making the grades I need to make.”
“Are you on a scholarship?” he asks as he locks the stock room door behind us.
