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This was the girl he’d loved so long, platonically and then otherwise, that he hardly remembered the years before she’d come into his life. It felt like she’d always been there.
Always would be.
Trying to get himself back in line, he kissed the inside of her knee. She touched his hair, reaching down to loosen his ponytail like he’d done with hers. She brushed her fingers over the back of his neck, saying more with that one gesture than she could have with a thousand words.
I want you. I trust you. I love you.
He pulled her closer to the edge of the table and registered her heeled boots digging into his ass when she wrapped her legs around him. The wool clung to her skin, but he forced the material out of the way to bare her black and pink panties.
“Polka dots?” he muttered, earning a muffled laugh.
She ran her fingertips over her shoulder. “Matches the bra. Except the bra has cutouts.” Her touch moved to her breasts, narrowing his focus until he groaned and dragged his gaze back to her panties. He reached out to stroke the satin panel between her thighs, closing his eyes at her surprised moan.
Wet. So damn wet.
“I’ve wanted to eat your pussy since you wore that bikini to Tristan’s house party senior year.” He felt her stiffen, but he didn’t stop. If he could put his mouth on it, he could damn well use the word as something other than a curse. “The blue one with the white hearts all over. You were on the couch, spread out asleep after swimming all day, and I saw a little of this.” He tugged on a wispy blonde curl that escaped the confines of her panties. “It made me want to see the rest. To put my tongue right here,” he demonstrated, flattening his tongue against her clit through the fabric, “and make you moan like you are right now.”
Cait’s legs tightened around his back, and her thighs opened farther. “God, I’m so embarrassed. So much for a neat bikini line.”
He stroked the wet curl, then licked it, pulling lightly. She bolted upward as if he’d prodded her with a fiery poker. “I’d figured you’d be shaving now.”
“Waxing,” she corrected, laughing before another lick and press stole her breath.
“Whatever. Mmm, I can taste you even through the fabric. You like having a guy’s tongue here, don’t you?”
“I’m assuming that’s a rhetorical question.” Her voice had lowered to match his.
He grinned and nipped her soft inner thigh. She whimpered just as he’d wanted. Then he went to work with his fingers, sliding them up and down so that the material soon became saturated with her juices. He yanked her as close as he could get her and buried his face between her thighs, inhaling her with every stab of his tongue against her eager, swollen clit. She pulled on his hair—even harder than Tristan, for God’s sake—and rubbed against his mouth, grinding hard, shameless in her pursuit of her orgasm.
When he’d imagined her in bed, he’d guessed she’d be like this. Not some limp rag doll waiting to be pleased, but a willing, excited participant.
Completely complicit in her own sensual implosion.
What he hadn’t guessed was that she’d come with a long, ragged whimper with hardly any stimulation at all. Her heels beat against him, and her release poured through the fabric, a thick honey he couldn’t swallow fast enough. Through it all, she clutched his hair, bringing him against her, so close that the pulse of her clit beat against his lips.
“Better than I thought,” he whispered, breaking the silence once her panting had subsided.
He sucked in a breath and relished the perfume of her orgasm. He’d given her that. That sweet, tangy scent belonged to him now too.
She nudged him back with a hand on his shoulder, her expression way too intense considering the climax she’d just had. “I was going to ask you or Tris to take my virginity,” she said after a moment, still sounding breathless.
“Oh.” As the full weight of that sank in, he rocked back on his feet. “Either of us? Like whichever tool comes to hand?”
“No. Of course not.” She pursed her lips as if he’d just said something terribly offensive. “I figured we’d decide. As a group. Like we decide everything.” Her throat moved. “We’re best friends.”
“Best friends, right. Makes sense.” He shook his head. Wow, she’d taken her organizational planner life a little too far. “So you’re interviewing candidates. At least you’ve narrowed down the possibilities to two.”
“You’re making it sound—”
“Insane?” Matt shook his head. “No, absolutely not. It’s perfectly rational to ask your best friends which one wants to shoulder the responsibility of popping your cherry.”
“Shoulder? Excuse me? Who just had his tongue in my…”
“Pussy,” he said patiently. “
A word you have no problem using when you’re pissed.”
She took a breath and didn’t answer.
