My eyes travel up from the trail of dark hair that disappears behind the waistband of his jeans. His chest is perfect. I want to bite his shoulders. I want to lick his throat. I want to sit on his face.
That’s the position I pick.
I lift my gaze to his.
He has one eyebrow up. “You have an idea?” he asks, reading me somehow.
I nod.
“Tell me.” It’s a command, not a question.
“I want to sit on your face,” I say bluntly.
“Jesus Christ, yes,” he practically growls. He grasps me by the waist and tosses me back onto the bed. He steps close to the mattress. “But I’m going to make you come at least once first so I can lap up all of that sweetness while you’re up there.”
“Oh my God,” I breathe out before I can stop it. Lust shudders through me.
He braces one hand on the mattress by my hip and runs his other hot hand up under my ass. “I intend to hear a lot more ofthat.”
I have no doubt he will.
He grasps the waistband of my shorts and panties underneath and tugs.
I lift my ass so he can pull both down my legs, reaching to help on the other side. Together, we strip me from the waist down.
He lifts them to his nose, inhaling deeply. “Flowers,” he says. He tosses them on the floor. “Fucking addictive.”
He stops, studying me for a moment. I can only imagine how I look. Nothing is exposed, yet. But my shirt is bunched just below the point of being scandalous. I’m sure my hair is a mess from his fingers. My cheeks are probably flushed.
“Fucking hell, Wildflower,” he says, stepping forward. “I could stay here for days.”
Yes, I want Alex Olsen in my bed for days. Only getting up for water and food occasionally. I don’t want him to get dressed. I don’t want him more than a room away. I don’t want either of us to talk to another human for at least forty-eight hours.
I almost gasp at all of those tumbling thoughts.
Who am I suddenly?
Not leave the house? Not talk to anyone else?
What would even happen to my family? My town?
I have never even spenthours, plural, on sex. Not ever.
But for Alex, I’d even consider calling in sick. Inevercall in sick. I’m a good girl. Highly responsible. The town sweetheart. The one who plans the farmer’s market, and street fairs, and the?—
“Fuck, you’re pretty.”
Every other thought flies out of my head as Alex sinks to his knees at the foot of the bed.
He reaches up, slides his hands under my ass, and pulls me to the end of the mattress until I am right on the edge.
“Prettier than any flower,” he tells me, staring at my pussy.
He leans in and kisses my inner thigh. Then he drags his tongue from that spot to the outer edge of my pussy.
“Prettier than even the all-pink flowers.”
I feel like laughing. He’s comparing my pussy toflowers. And I swear if he calls my labia ‘petals’ I’m going to lose it—and maybe cringe—but I can’t laugh, or caution him, because he licks up one side, over the top, not quite touching my clit, then down the other.
