mutters Italian under his breath.
Then he throws a glance at Red Lips. “Didn't fuckin' see you,” he says, bitter. “Even if I did? Don't owe you shit. And her? She sat herself down.”
Talia slides her fingers across his shoulder.
“Get over it, sweetheart.
“You got yours. You knew the deal.”
Red Lips steps forward,
ready to knock Talia's mouth off her face.
Nico swings in with a bullshit smile,
pulling a drumstick out like a barricade.
“Damn, back up, out of the booth.
“C’mon, bro’s allergic.”
Andrew glances at me,
checking to see what this is doing to me.
So I smile. Because I’m a fucking professional.
And professionals smile while their heart gets stabbed.
“Allergic?” Red Lips grins. “Allergic to what?”
“D-cups,” Nico blurts, trying to make light of it, trying to steer her in the opposite direction. “Yeah. Within five feet? His throat closes up. Face all swollen. Full anaphylaxis.”
She scoffs, turns away from Nico,
and tosses a glare at Andrew.
“Funny.” She steps closer, voice dripping poison. “You weren’t allergic when your mouth was buried between my thighs.” She shrugs. “Unless moaning into my clit with a death grip on my D-cup is how you go into shock.”
I freeze in the words.
Mid-breath.
Mid-thought.
Mid-blink.
Trapped with this image she just stuffed into my skull: her, red lips smudged on the wall he’s got her pinned to, dress bunched, panties looped around one heel. And I can see him—on his knees, one hand gripping her thigh, the other squeezing her tit, face-first into her pussy, eating her from behind, starving for it. Neck flexed. Shoulders tense. Moaning into her, wanting to drown there, fucking gone for her.
I stopped breathing.
And then the nausea hits again?—
immediate, bright, burning.
My stomach’s about to spill onto the fucking floor.
Her words still hover in the air.
