Smirking, I release her breast, chuckling when she whines. I grip the collar of her tank and begin to tear the offending cloth impeding my access.
“Do you?—”
Rip.
“want me...”
Rip.
“…to make…”
Rip.
“—you come?”
The punctuated cadence crescendos—her tank in tatters, exposing her sports bra.
“Fuck,” I blurt out at the sight of the black sports bra crisscrossing along her sternum, making Tati’s already full breasts appear more voluptuous as her heaving breaths make her chest rise and fall. It also makes for easier access. And I make a mental note to buy her ones that require a key that only I possess—a chastity belt for her breasts.
I like the idea so much that I’m already thinking of who can manufacture it so that it’s breathable and offers all the comfort without any of the access.
Lowering the cups of her bra, her tits in all their supple glory lie before me, and I can’t help but caress them.
Eyes raised, meeting her lustful gaze.
“Answer me,” I growl, pinching her nipples until she moans, a mixture of pleasure with a hint of pain. But the stubbornness remains.
“My little fox wants to play chicken on the front lawn of her childhood home, surrounded by body parts,” I tease. “Then I’m happy to oblige.”
Feral to explore parts of her I didn’t get to worship three years ago, I wrap my lips aroundher nipple and suck, nipping at the raised peak while I pluck and pinch the other until she’s squirming with need.
She moans—low, guttural—and the sound lights me up. More writhing. More wanting. More her. My dick hardens, growing past the point of pain, and I recognize how close we are to claiming our coveted—breath, sanity, salvation—whatever this is.
“Oh fuck,” she gasps, and I suck harder, swirling my tongue to lessen the bite of pain that comes from my teeth. “Please. More,” she begs, but she doesn’t answer my question.
“Answer...”
Suck
“…me…”
Nip
“—Tati.”
Blow.
Peering up at her, I see the want to say “yes” but the will to say “no” wins.
I contemplate throwing the question out the window until she smirks—a catlike smile that says she one hundred percent knows what she’s doing.
Touché.But two can play that game.
I reach for the knife on my belt as I rub her clit through her leggings. “You’re gonna be dirty for me, Tati.”
It’s a command, not a question—a declaration.
Tati hums, bliss painted all over her face. She wants this just as much as I do. She’s just being a brat—one that gets off on the thrill of the chase. And I get off on the thrill of huntingher.
