That face.I hate it.Like he’s won and he's daring me to finish what I started.
I exhale through my nose.He lifts his brows, the tape tugging slightly as his lips curve underneath it.
You want a game?Fine, it's fucking on.
I move before my brain can catch up, fueled by the need to beat him at his own game.I climb onto the table, planting my knees on either side of his head with my hands braced by his hips on the table.
He's mumbling something under the tape, but I'm more concerned about what the hell I'm doing.
My thighs face Jay's face, giving him a nice view of my white panties and I'm staring down at his boxer-covered erection.
What was I trying to prove exactly?
The paper covering the vinyl tears under my grip, and my confidence wavers.I can't just move off him now.It would prove he won.
So, against my better judgment, I start to massage his thigh with one hand, and balance with the other.
His breath stutters.
Good.
“Behave,” I warn.
He stills instantly.
I ignore his growing erection under his boxers, and finish up the tape job with one hand.
That's when I feel him press his taped mouth against my cotton-covered center.His nose circles my slit as he pushes the tape against me.
I stop.A small gasp escapes my lips, and my legs wobble a little.
“J-Jay-”
His hands make their way up my thighs before he pulls me down so I'm sitting on his face.
What am I doing?
Coach McKibbon or any other player could come walking in here and see this, but I don't seem to care.
No, because even though Jay's mouth is taped and I'm wearing panties, he's getting me closer to an orgasm quicker than any man before.
He tilts his head just slightly, adjusting.The tape drags against me in a way that’s rough and deliberate, the friction sending a sharp pulse straight through me.His nose presses into the wet fabric, moving to see what will make me squirm.
My hips tip forward before I can stop myself.
“Oh—” The sound slips out as I grip the edge of the table, holding myself back from all-out riding Jay's face.
He hums underneath the tape, the vibration adding another layer to it, and then he does it again—slow, controlled, unrelenting.The scrape of tape, the press of his face, the way he refuses to rush any part of it.He keeps me right there, suspended, every nerve firing.
My hips start to move on their own.Small at first.Then more urgently.I try to line myself up the way I want, chasing pressure, chasing release.
That's when he pushes my skirt up to my midriff and then he slides his hands down my thighs, his thumbs resting next to his face.
And right next to where I need him most.
His thumbs stroke my sensitive skin, never quite getting to the place I need him the most, though.
When they stop moving, I groan out in frustration.
