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I smile at her because whether she knows it or not, tonight, I’ve decided to lean into this fucked-up game and make this infuriating, beautiful woman mine.
And what I do next seals that.
I bring her hand up, up, up.
My grip on her wrist is loose.
She comes to me willingly.
A gentle tug, a “no,” anything at all, and I’d let her go. I’d step back and I’d go downstairs.
I go slow, eyes locked to hers, telling her she’s making this decision.
I might be doing the action, but she’s approving it.
And she doesn’t say anything whatsoever.
Instead, she licks her lips, eyes on my own.
I’ll take that as a go ahead.
I slip her fingers into my mouth, the first two, and roll my tongue around them, letting my tongue ring hit her nails, her knuckles.
And there I taste it.
Her pussy.
Not long ago, these fingers were inside of her; her pussy was clamping down while she fucked herself, rubbed herself with these fingers that I’m cleaning with my tongue.
She was coming with my name on her lips.
She’s sweet. Sweet and musky and all I want is to taste more. I want to live in this taste.
Fuck cookies and cupcakes.
I want to eat Lola Turner until I die.
A small moan, almost indistinguishable through the pounding of blood in my ears, falls from her lips.
Fuck.
I gotta go before I pin her to her door and fuck her right in her hallway.
And really, I would. I’d love to. But I’ve got a client in twenty.
So I let go of her wrist, let it fall, and put a hand behind her head, pulling her to me and kissing her again.
It’s better than last time.
It’s harder. It’s more impatient.
And it tastes like her lips and her pussy.
When I end the kiss years before I would like to, I step back, letting go of her. She stays standing there, eyes hooded with desire. Desire I don’t think I would ever get tired of seeing on this woman’s face.
I am so completely fucked.
“Next time, sweet girl, just come downstairs. I’ll take care of you.” When her eyes flare, a mix of heat and embarrassment and desire flooding those green irises, I know.
