Page 47 of Surviving in Clua


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My groan is pained, my dick throbbing against my palm along with my pulse. “And?”

She pauses for a second, and I’d bet my last fucking dollar she’s biting her lip. “Fuck it… I pull your hair. Hold your head still so I can—”

“Fuck my tongue.” I growl out for her, picturing it all in minute detail.

“Yesssss.” Her breaths are coming harder now, and it just about does me in. “Sometimes you just shove my shorts to the side and push into me. Fuck me against the wall, fast and hard until I come. Sometimes you pull back to watch yourself make me come with your fingers.”

I squeeze my dick harder, imagining her lying in her bed, legs wide, pretending her fingers are my fingers—my cock—my tongue. I work myself faster. Lost to the screenplay in my head.

“I want that. I want you.” Her voice trails into something ineligible, but it’s the sexiest ineligible I’ve ever fucking heard.

“I want to hear you come.”

“Fuck, Mylo… I need you here.”

Fire licks up my spine at the sound of her getting closer. The thought of her fingers in her pussy. My hips lift with every rough pump of my fist. And when her soft pants get louder and longer, I stroke harder. Faster.

“Shit, Mylo, I’m—” her breath releases in a moan, and it takes zero imagination to picture her back bowing off the bed, her legs clamping together, head thrown back as she comes apart against her fingers.

Colors blasts behind my eyelids, a groan drags up from the tips of my toes, pleasure sparking in the base of my spine until I come all over my stomach to the sound of her. It’s hard and intense. It’s fucking spectacular.

And this time it changes everything.

“Kenzi?” I start when my breathing steadies and my head stops spinning.

“Hmm?” Her voice is sleepy, content, void of the frustration from earlier. “I should phone you more often.”

I laugh hoarsely, my eyelids heavy. “We need to talk about this.”

“Mmmhhhmmm.”

“Tomorrow. I’ll be home after lunch.”

“Mmmkay.”

“Kenzi?”

“Hm?”

“I’m coming for you.”

EIGHTEEN

Kenzi

One eye cracked open, I attempt to peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. Water. I need water. My other eye opens a slither and my sluggish brain thumps against the sides of my skull like it’s grown two sizes in the night. Painkillers, I need them too. Ugh, what the hell is stuck to my cheek? I swipe lazily at my face. My cell? What the…? Nooooo.

My brain thuds again, stalling over the goings-on of last night. Morning after fear grips on tightly in the back of my throat.

No. Oh, God no.

Mylo.

Shit. Mylo.

My stomach rolls. I squeeze my eyes tighter. I drunk dialed.

“No,” I groan. Bits and pieces of the conversation play out amongst the sludge that is now my brain. I called him names. Heat rises up my cheeks and my heart flips, but not in a good way—in an about-to-have-a-panic-attack kind of way. I think we… holy shit we had phone sex. Grabbing a pillow, I drag it over my face. Really good phone sex. Shitshitshitshitshit.

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