Fingers curl into the bottom ofmyjersey. “Stop.” There’s no way she’s taking that off tonight. “Leave it.”
Sutton listens. Leaning forward, I teasingly blow on her center, before planting kisses up her right thigh. I relish in Sutton’s soft mews when my grown out facial hair scrapes the inside of her thigh. It’s so sweet that I repeat this up her other leg before kissing her where she’s trying to drag me by my hair to.
Her hands turn desperate after her release. Standing in front of her, Sutton is undressing me quickly. My jeans and long-sleeve joining the shreds of her underwear.
“Do you trust me?” I lick my barely there mustache, tasting her on me. Sutton watches the movement of my tongue. “Want a taste?” Her nods are quick and fast, slightly disjointed. “Come here.”
She pulls herself up to me, the comforter bunches between her legs and she hisses, still swollen and sensitive. When I think she’s about to kiss me, she licks my mustache instead, eyelids fluttering.
“More?” I gently take her wrist, guiding her hand down between her legs. Aiding two fingers inside of her, I bring her hand back to her mouth. “Open.” She follows each command, always eager to learn.
Her cheeks hollow out, and I need her now.
“Do you trust me?” I ask again, since we got distracted before.
“Yes,” she verbalizes.
My heart surges. She might be saying yes in this moment, but I know she’s saying yes in general. She trusts me again. Sutton’s trust is a prized possession. I’m going to care for it this time like I didn’t before.
“Lie down, back on the bed. Let your head hang off the edge.”
Again, she does as she is told. My words landing somewhere between a request and a demand. I’m doing my best to maintain control.
Auburn curls are a waterfall over the side. Long enough that they brush against the ground. I adjust my position. Her eyes sparkle with realization. Giant gemstones gleam with need. Her mouth falls open, tongue darting out and tasting me.
Sutton’s cheeks hollow out as she takes me into her mouth. Slowly. Tears brimming in the corner of her eyes from the position.
“Breath,” I tell her, giving her a moment. “Relax.”
She takes an inhale and releases it all as I touch the back of her throat. Sutton has drool forming at the corners of her mouth, tears now trailing down her cheek, as I move in and out of her. I reach a hand forward, circling her neck just above her collarbones.
“Such a good girl for me, Sutton baby, taking me like this. So so so good.”
She whimpers, then sucks hard, and I curse.
I don’t last much longer, when she reaches down to play with herself.
After, I’m spent and all I can do is lie down next to her. We both roll on our sides and stare at each other. I trace the outline of her face. So many years of wanting her, wanting this, and I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.
Eventually, Sutton excuses herself to the bathroom, and I exchange places with her when she exits in sleep shorts and a cami. She climbs in on her side. Curled in my bed, hair wild across the pillows, and reading a new book. I lean against the side and drink her in.
When she notices me, she lights up. I know it then.
I love her.
FORTY-TWO
SUTTON
Week number—I’velost track at this point—of the semester, and I’m reminded why Dr. Manning warned me that an independent study isn’t for those weak of heart.
You can do this. You have what it takes.
I repeat the affirmation as I rush into the psych building. I’m running behind for my slotted ‘class’ time with Dr. Manning. Most of my work is self-led; however, we meet twice a week. Even if the two hours are spent with minimal chatting and my nose deep into an article or headphones playing podcasts or TED Talks.
Dr. Manning isn’t in her office when I get there, but the door is propped open, so I let myself in. I pull the stain stick out of my tote and attempt to get the red-brown splotch courtesy of Jaxon scaring me this morning while I was making breakfast out of my white shirt. It’s one of my favorites. Mom had taken one of Meave’s art pieces and digitized it into shirts for us.
Letting out a frustrated sigh, I give up and tuck the shirt back into my overalls. I pull out my laptop to check my student email. The amount of junk I’ve subscribed to for a student discount is lowkey disgusting and not worth the dollar or two off.
