I slouched in protest. This was embarrassing.
If I declined to answer, would he stay like this until I said something? I wasn’t going to say what I really thought. He might think I was a degenerate if I said anything as filthy as all the ways I wanted him to have me in my inner fantasies.
Then, I grabbed the half-sliced peach from the table.
If I couldn’t say it directly, I would have to get creative.
With the fruit in my palm, I crushed it. The juice dribbled over my pelvic bone, dousing me between the legs.
He raised his brow again, this time in amusement.
“I want you,” I began, taking a deep breath through the unbearable heat in my face, “to clean it up. Without using your hands.” My face burned as hot as his kiln. “Best not to waste perfectly good fruit.”
Stop talking! You are making a fool of yourself!
He lowered his face down between my legs, both him and my pelvis within view. I felt like a voyeur of my own body, removed and attached all at once. I could feel his shallow breathing against the sensitive skin, triggering the urge to flee.
He flattened his tongue between my labia, dragging it up before lingering at my clitoris.
My entire body stiffened. No matter how I justified it in my head, it feltdirty.
His hand wrapped around my thigh on his shoulder to keep it still. He lowered again, this time in the surrounding area, cleaning the fresh-squeezed juice from my skin. Licking, sucking, savoring every mouthful.
His warm tongue laved over the sensitive skin, a hotness I thought would melt me faster than ice cream on park pavement.
A shiver shot down my spine, and I could feel the heat rising from my neck and burning my ears in embarrassment.
“How does it feel?” he asked, his lips remaining close, his cheek brushing against my inner thigh. His breath tickled against the skin.
“It feels ... nice.” I was being conservative with my description.
“Tell me more,” he said, slipping his tongue between again, probing a little deeper as he ran it through, then sucking gently on my nerves. His tongue circled the spot, teasing me.
“It’s warm,” I breathed. “Arkady ...”
His free hand moved between my legs, resting on my thigh as he traced around the place he was teasing.
His fingers paired with his tongue somehow made me panic. It seemed both were experienced, though I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. His middle and fourth fingers pressed against me, then spread outward, exposing me more, if that was even possible. Then, his tongue dipped in and out, never going farther than what I instructed, only cleaning the peach flavor from my skin.
“Put it in,” I blurted.
His eyes shot up, and he smirked as the words registered.
“I want ... it inside.” I winced.
“You’re getting good at making demands,” he teased. “Be specific.”
“Hands”—my face felt like it was beside a furnace—“y-your hands.”
He carefully pressed a single finger inside, hot against my skin.
“Not just one.”
“Another? Moving a bit fast, aren’t we?”
“Forget it, then!” I argued.
“I’m joking.” He chuckled. He must have felt my thigh stiffen. He inserted a second finger, his hand palm up now, pushing in and out, testing the metaphorical waters.
