“Just hold still, Katarina.” He gives my mound a little slap and I immediately obey.
“Oh, baby. Look at all this,” his mouth oozes words beside my ear. “Fuck, Kit, you little liar.”
It’s because he’s slipped down between my lips and found out just how wet I’ve gotten in these last few minutes.
“I didn’t lie.” I sound like a bratty teenager. “I never said I wasn’t turned on.”
He snorts in disbelief while the hard callused edge of one finger explores parts of me I’ve mostly ignored these past few months. Hell, even before the breakup, because Clark never spent much time down there or even worrying about how sex felt for me at all.
My eyes shut hard on the pleasure of Jake there, sliding over my stiff clit and down to a place he knows intimately, but has never once seen.
When I think of it that way—when I take my feelings and fears and everything else out of the equation—it does seem unfair, somehow, that I’ve kept him from touching, looking, tasting.
That one finger feels huge this way, with his big body hemming mine in and his breath so close to my face.
Between the cold champagne bottle in my hand and Jake, I’m trapped here, which is a relief, somehow. If he’s making me do this, then I’m entirely absolved of responsibility.
I shudder when he rubs back up and nudges my clit again, sending pleasure racing through my nerves.
“You’re such a good girl, Kit, getting all swollen and wet for me like this. It’ll feel so good when I fuck you,” he whispers.
“Jake,” I admonish, embarrassed as hell by his words.
“Sorry. Should I be telling you to hold still?” He huffs out a humorless sound. “Grit your teeth? Shut your eyes while I administer a dose of medicinal fingering before we move on to the main procedure?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Yeah, well. Forget the no-talking rule.” He shakes his head and shifts closer, glides his hand deeper again to gather my wetness and draw it up to where he’s concentrating his energies.
My entire body curls in on itself at the spark of rough fingers to stiff clit.
“That rule,” he breathes, the words coinciding with the slow swirl of his fingers in a way that makes the whole thing bigger, harsher, brighter. “Wasn’t in the contract, was it? In’t that true?”
It’s true. It’s true, it wasn’t in the contract. We talked about it, mentioned an addendum, but it was clearly a joke and now, here I am, being talked dirty to in the hallway of my housewhile Macon’s chihuahua barks up a storm next door and Mrs. Kreighton’s probably throwing all her weeds over the fence into my yard and I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but this. “I guess,” I manage to eke out, since he’s clearly waiting for a response. The truth is, I’ve got no idea what we’re talking about.
“And this, what I’m doing here?” His head bends, bringing his nose not quite against my cheek. “Fingering your tight little pussy like this? There’s actually no rule against that, is there? No mention of finger-fucking in the contract, was there?”
When I shake my head it brings my skin against his, presses his words into my cheekbone, imprints him there like it’s where he’s meant to be.
“It was touching or…unnecessary foreplay,” I remind him, ever the good student.
“Oooooh, that’s it. Right. Well, that’s gone. Dust. You and your sweet little, soaking wet pussy decided to forego that rule, didn’t you? You’re a bad girl, actually, Katarina.”
“No,” I moan, truly upset, for some inexplicable reason.
“You are. ’Cause now that we’ve blown through it, it’s gone. That’s how this works. You get that, right?”
“Oh, god.”
“Yep. Better pull up the contract so we can scratch out some of those rules. What do we have so far?”
“I don’t…I can’t…”
“Was there a rule about licking? Hmmmm, can’t quite recall now.”
My eyes fly open as I turn quickly to protest, but his body’s there to staunch the flow and box me in again. “Shhhhh, shhhhh, don’t get bent out of shape over nothing, Katarina. I’m not licking your little pussy right now, so calm the hell down.”
He’s right. He’s not. But he’s introduced the idea and that’s as good as.
