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Marika’s eyes slide closed as my fingers skim her pussy, pushing her lips apart and making her gasp. She’s already wet. Real wet. And hot.
A deep sigh escapes her. “Oooh, baby. Mmm…you’re going to make me late.”
I groan. “Fuck ’em. They’ll survive.”
“But….”
“Just a taste, baby,” I murmur into her neck. I nip at her ear. “Juste un avant-goût.” I repeat in French.
She moans. “You know it drives me crazy when you speak French in my ear.”
“I know, baby. J’aime vous faire fou.” I tell her I love making her crazy.
She moans again as I slip a thumb into her mouth. Let her suck it into her mouth like a thick clit. And right then, the shit makes me go weak with want.
Fuck.
She holds my hand in hers. Pulls my thumb out of her hot mouth and closes it around my index and middle fingers. She sucks them forcefully, causing my dick to throb as I finger-fuck her with my free hand. Her wet heat smothers my fingers, coats my hand.
I can’t take much more of this teasing shit. I’m ready to put in some work.
Tongue, first. Dick, second.
My dick bows upward, bouncing and pulsing. I stand up and scoop Marika up in my arms, sweeping the dishes off the table with an arm, making room to lay her on her back. Glasses and plates, eggs and sausages hit the floor.
“Wait, baby,” she says breathlessly. “What are you doing?”
“I want you in…my mouth…on my tongue. All of you.”
I push her legs back. My fingers spread her open. Then my face disappears. I lick and lave and kiss her folds. Smear my lips into her juices. Then bury my tongue deep inside of her.
“Ooh, yes…yes, baby! Eat my pussy! Oh, God, yesss…”
Marika has me going crazy with need.
The crazy need to taste her sweet cunt, to tongue her, to lick her, to suck her in.
And then…
I’m gonna slide this dick in her and coat her pussy walls with my nut.
NINETEEN
Marika
Six-thirty p.m., I’m whisking through the glass doors of Tamarind Tribeca—a trendy Indian restaurant on Hudson Street, to have dinner with Jasmine. She’d called earlier today to say she was in the city. And wanted to meet for dinner and drinks.
The moment I walk in, I spot her sitting at the bar talking to a tall, delicious, dark-skinned man, with a smooth shaven face and bald head, donned in a black suit. Jasmine sees me and waves a hand in the air, sliding off the barstool. The gentleman smiles and welcomes me as she wraps her arms around me, kissing me lightly on the cheek. “Hey, girl.”
“Hey,” I say, hugging her back. “I see you found your way to the bar.”
She laughs. “And if I were single”—she nods her head in the direction of the maître d’—“I’d find my way into the arms of that fine specimen of a man.”
I glance over my shoulder, eyeing him on the sly. “Girl, he is fine.”
He looks over at us, and smiles.
Her mouth curves in a familiar smile. Then she looks back over at him. “Yes he is. And Nigerian.” She wriggles her eyebrows up and down.
