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He grins with maddening charm, evidently unbothered by my crude question. “I was always told to try every dish once and then decide if I liked it or not.” His eyes study me as I internally boil from his sunshine demeanour and the memory of his tongue so utterly skilled it must have a Global Positioning System for my pussy, so not a GPS, but a CPS—a Clit Positioning System. “You’re pissed at me,” he states, a flicker of an apology carrying his tone.
Very perceptive, Xander.
He continues, “Look,damn. It’s not you. I’m a blackout drunk, girlie.”
Girlie?
I scowl at him. “Don’t call me that.”
“Alright,” he agrees, carefree. “I’m a blackout drunk,Woman. It’s not personal.”
“So, you’re an alcoholic.”
“No.” He laughs at the word. “I don’t drink every day. I don’t even drink every second or third, but when I do, I tend to… binge”—he pauses on a hum—“a tad.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“And since I’ve already tried you once and currently have your unsatisfied pussy juices in my mouth, I think I must have decided I like the dish. Now, why don’t you be a good little…womanand sit on my face so we can both end this night the right way.”
Instantly, I squeeze my legs together, muscles fighting against the ditzy chick inside me that nods and spreads eagle for Xander-Annoyingly-Cute-Butcher…again. “I can’t have two different men in one night.”
“Says who?”
Society.I blink at the stars.
His silence causes a shift in me, in the wind, and I twist to see his mien turn severe, cast in darkness. Ominous in his stillness, he slowly raises his hand, grips the balaclava at his dark hairline and drags it down the plane of his emotionless expression until he’s unrecognisable except for that finely-cut physique tucked into lush dark fabric.
“You don’t know who I am.”
My pussy instantly aches and contracts in anticipation, causing me to shuffle around the mesh of the trampoline. “Make it quick,” I breathe out fast, wrestling to hide the airy sound and failing terrifically.
“You don’t rush art.”
God.I groan at his words, knowing them to be true. Swallowing past the lump of flirty air, I turn to stare at the stars, unable to hold the glistening blue eyes fixed on me from within a hole of black material. “I doubt you’ll even find my clit in your current state.” I’m lying, and we both know it. Last time he was far more intoxicated than he is now, and he found it just fine.
I look back at him again. The challenge rolls his fingers into his palms, and I feel that action like waves of pleasure crashing through my core.
He stalks towards me; one, two, three, he pounces on the trampoline, and the image of that goddamn panther flashes behind my eyes again.
My body bounces as his knees drop to either side of my hips, his hand ripping at the top of my jeans as though they are his enemy.
I squeal with disbelief but shuffle to help as he peels the denim off with mock disdain for the blue piece of cloth.
Before I can comprehend the rush of air on my bare legs, they are spread and his mouth is over the fabric of my underwear, his top teeth kneading my clit hard while his tongue is pressing against the fabric and into my opening.
Moaning in a carefree way I don’t recognise, I grip the balaclava, bunching it within my fists as he begins to prove just how easily he can find any part of me with his pussy CPS. “Fuck.”
I squeeze my eyes shut as he groans with relief, murmuring, “This is what I need.” Beneath the strain in his deep timbre, there’s a second meaning, but what is it? I don’t know. His groans hum against my flesh as he makes every swipe of his tongue and press of his teeth exaggerated and needy, wiping all rational thought from me.
Then he stops.
And I almost bawl like a baby if not for the anger now scratching at me. He grins at me, and I return his look with a scowl.
“I can’t seem to find it in my state,” he taunts, then reaches for my underwear, pulling it aside and dipping to connect his hot mouth with my bare, smooth pussy.
I whimper to the ecstasy.
He mouths me, his own enjoyment evident in the sounds coming from his chest and the way his hips mimic the bucking of my own.
