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She mewls, her back arching up off the bed, pushing the hard bud deeper into my mouth. I roll my tongue over it, tasting the berry sweetness of that exquisite bud. When I kiss a path over to her other breast and lave her nipple with my tongue, I can feel her heart jackhammering under my touch. It’s thrilling and heady to know that I can turn her on. That I can make her heart beat like that, and it’s not just mine beating embarrassingly furiously.
“I feel like your lips are like lightning,” Azalea moans. “Creating tiny sparks all over my skin.” Her hands tangle in my hair, and she hauls my face back to her nipple. She arches into me, and I taste her again, taking her nipple into my mouth and scraping my teeth over it gently until she’s panting and her hips buck up against mine.
“You should try dirty talk,” she pants. “It would probably help set the mood.”
“Do you need the mood to be set?”
I realize that it’s not dark, we haven’t lit any candles, and we sure as shit haven’t done anything romantic today other than get fake married. That’s not romantic. Yes, we cleaned. But nope. Not romantic. I’m not going to think she has a thing for me because I’m her captor, especially since she said she’s not mad about that anymore, and she knows that tomorrow, she can go wherever she wants. The fact that it’s full daylight and she’s already this confident makes me achingly hard.
“Uhhhh…” Dirty talk. Yes, I can do that.
“It isn’t for me,” she clarifies. “It’s for you.”
I groan. “I’m already harder than…uh, sorry. That’s not gentlemanly.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I can tell you’re still nervous. This is to help you. Let’s dirty talk and laugh about it and then hump like enraged animals.”
“Holy god, if rabid animal sex is what you’re expecting, then you might be disappointed.”
“Doubtful,” she states coyly and smirks at me.
I stare at her in dumbfounded awe. I have never met anyone like Azalea before. She’s sweet and probably very kind. And she was kind enough to care about what we do here and get fake married to me. She also didn’t make fun of me when I shaved my chest until it was glowing cherry red, she’s been nice to Granny, my brothers, and even my men, and she’s totally okay with the fact that I’m no rip-roaring knock-your-socks off alpha male in bed.
I mean, I don’t know. I could be. Maybe. For her. Maybe?
Wait, what does that even mean?
Azalea arches up and runs her finger down my chest. She circles my nipple, flicking it again, and my skin breaks out in goosebumps for a second time. “I’ll start,” she says. “I’d like you to…eat my pussy.”
“Duly noted.”
“No, that’s not dirty enough. It’s also not that funny. Um, well, I’d like to come on your cock after.”
“Christ.” I feel like someone just shot me in the ass. As in, get your ass going before Mr. Happy gets too happy in the pants, and we end up like last night—hugely disappointed. At least, I imagine she was.
“Is that too dirty? Not dirty enough? No, that’s not funny. That’s what it isn’t. It’s not funny if it’s true. I…I don’t know. You haunt me. If we were ghosts, I’m sure our ghosts would want to find each other and have sexy ghost sex. It would be even more exciting because then we could do all these weird ghost positions in the air and do it while hovering through walls.” She grins. “Ahhh, I see it. A smile. There it is.”
Yes, there it is. I can’t hold back my laughter anymore. It rumbles out of me, easy and deep.
“I plan to slowly kiss you until you pass out again from lack of oxygen. No, that’s not funny. But it could also be true. Uh, I think kissing you when you taste like pickles is good. Shit. That’s true again. Oh, I know. We can talk about your pickle.”
“Oh my god. Lie back.” I splay my hand over her face gently and give the tiniest of pushes. She cooperates, her head hitting the pillow, her hair fanning out around her like a halo of golden silk.
My blood is surging double time. My cock is also surging double time. It’s kicking in my pants like a horse beating at its stall because it wants out so it can rock and freaking roll. Or do whatever horses do when they get wound up good and extra wild. Buck and kick? Yeah, probably. Sounds appropriate for this metaphor as well.
Her tongue snakes out and licks my palm, making my cock twitch violently. I run my still-splayed hand over her chin and down her chest, tickling each rib on the way down to her flat stomach.
