I grasp her around the backs of her legs, drawing her close and pressing my face into her crotch. She squeals and tries to push me away, laughing, but I hook her even closer, rising slightly to grab the sweatpants waistband between my teeth and dragging them down.
When I let go, I butt my head against her lower abdomen and she plunges her fingers into my hair, tugging at it until my scalp sings from her touch.
She’s bare underneath them. Another item on the list of things I should collect for us tomorrow. Can’t live forever in a hideout without a large stack of clean underwear. Even if the only point to her wearing them is so I can tear them off her with my teeth.
I run my nose along the top half of her slit, closing my eyes at her quiet moan so I can hear well enough to keep that in my permanent memory bank. My fingers move to cup her arse cheeks, rubbing them as my palms send delighted signals back about their smoothness, their ripeness, their impossible not to squeeze-ness.
“This isn’t appropriate for the dance floor,” she whispers.
“Then we should immediately vacate.” I lick along the length of her, teasing at the outer lips until the fingers pulling at my hair send warning signals.
Not that I care. She can tug every hair out by the root just so long as I get to lick at her secret centre, letting my tongue delve into the soft, wet, goodness and suck at her swollen clit until she doesn’t know whether to scream for me to stop or scream for more.
Her knees tremble as I taste her, coaxing her lips open to explore her inner sanctum more thoroughly. When she shakes enough that I fear for her balance, I lift her right leg, setting it over my shoulder before doing the same with her left, taking all of her weight while my mouth remains buried between her thighs.
I shuffle forward until the sofa is within reach, then lower her onto its cushions. My teeth graze against her clit, her resulting gasp half a warning. She’s so sensitive to every touch that my chin is soon coated with her juices. I rub against her inner thigh, leaving a glorious trail before finding my tongue seeks her entrance, flicking against the upper side while I pull her until she lies flat on the sofa, her rear off the seat, thighs still perched upon my shoulders.
When she’s close enough that her hips thrust at me, squeezing with more urgency, I tease her, breaking away to push up her tee and caress the underside of her breasts, cupping one tit in my fingers while my thumb teases at the hardening nipple.
Her back arches and I return to her clit, swirling my tongue around the tiny mound, then roughly lapping along her folds before fixing my mouth over her and sucking gently while she writhes under me, hands gripping me so hard I can hear the strands ripping from my scalp.
She comes, bucking against me so strongly that I have to close my mouth, scared she’ll bump too hard against my teeth.
I continue to kiss along her inner thigh, slowly turning her until she’s face down on the sofa and I’ve tucked her legs underneath her. One hand stays on her lower back because I can’t stand to break contact with her skin, while the other fumbles in my pocket, hoping to find a rubber.
“Stop.”
The urgency in her voice rocks me back on my heels and she struggles to turn over, moving on wobbly legs to the bathroom and slamming the door. There’s the sound of her gulping, audible even through the door, then the softer sound of a groan.
“Are you okay?”
“Sick,” she mutters as I pull the door open to see her clutching the bowl, her cheek resting against the seat.
“Was it something I did?” I tease, moving to kneel beside her, stroking the hairs away from her sweating face. “You didn’t eat enough for it to be food poisoning.”
She burps and makes a face, then sits a little straighter.
“There’s some Gaviscon in the cupboard,” I tell her, already opening the door and grabbing it from the shelf.
With her eyes closed, her hand flails for it and I remove the childproof cap before placing it within her grasp. “Thanks.”
“You want me to rub your back?”
The wrinkled nose tells me her answer and I back out of the room, easing the door back to closed to give her privacy. “Sing out if you need anything.”
She mutters something in the affirmative, then gags. I pump up the stereo volume to cover the noise, frowning as I straighten the couch, the bed, and myself.
I don’t know how long I should leave her alone in there and before I can reach an answer, I hear a flush and then water running in the sink.
There’s another pause, long enough that I wonder if we can pick up right where we left off or if the moment’s gone, then she opens the door.
My heart stops and my face turns cold.
In Em’s hand is my gun.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
CAYLON
