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It’s ready for her now. But it’s not time yet.
It takes every ounce of strength not to sink into her right the fuck now. Let her ride my dick and put whatever she wants into my ass—a finger, a toy, a fucking loofah—but not like this. Not in the shower.
Call me old-fashioned, but we need a bed for that.
However, I need to taste her right the fuck now.
Presley writhes against the tile as I make out with her pussy, licking and tasting and swallowing down her honey, the sucking noises echoing off the tile.
I knew Presley would taste amazing. I wasn’t ready for her to make me drunk and crazed for her sweetness.
I lick into her tight hole, drinking her in, bathing her with my tongue. With my thumb, I gently pull back the hood of her clit to nuzzle her there.
“Wade! Oh my god!”
My naughty girl wraps both legs around my head as I work her with my mouth. Her thighs grip while her pretty little toes curl against my spine…
…But wait. Her toes.
And then I remember that right leg needs to stay still.
“Naughty girl,” I say when I come up, shooting her a look.
“It’s fine, I’m fine!” Presley assures me, but I do not listen and instead brace her right leg against the tile.
“What did I tell you about keeping still?”
She hums with pleasure as I resume making out with her pussy. “Hmm. Something, something, blah-blah, something,” she replies, her voice thick with need even as she sasses me.
That’s it. No mercy.
I purse my lips around her tight clit and suck.
Presley screams her release, her fingers curling tightly around the shell of my ear.
And I keep going until she has nothing left to feed me.
CHAPTERELEVEN
Presley
Although I do thoroughly enjoy having Wade’s filthy body all over me, I have to say that I love a squeaky-clean Wade just as much, if not more.
Did I say I love him? I could see it happening.
After our shower, Wade moves the slumber party to his room, where a gigantic TV screen is mounted to the wall opposite the bed. This sure beats a laptop. Here, we burn through a marathon of each other’s favorite shows, feeding each other snacks in our pajamas until we’re both ready to burst.
At some point, as we’re pretzeled together under the covers, I tell him another truth. “Most of the guys I’ve dated don’t want to humor me and my preferences. They would let me watch my shows but wouldn’t watch them with me. We might fool around, but then they’d be done with me and do their own thing. I like it that you want to spend time with me.”
Wade’s leg is hooked over mine, trapping me close to him. I’m not thinking about the slight, lingering pain in my foot, only feeling present in my body and Wade’s heat. His fingers slide over my face, and he sighs like some kind of beast that’s been running all day and finally found its home. His sleepy eyes droop closed. I don’t wait for a reply; I’m content to close my eyes and listen to his breathing.
But then, lazily, on the verge of sleep, he murmurs, “They didn’t love you like I do.”
* * *
The next morning, satisfied that my foot is healing, Wade drives me to work with him.
“I can go back to my regular job. I promise I’ll be okay,” I tell him once we’re parked at the job site.
