“Don’t worry, angel. It’ll be fun,” I promise, and turn my attention back to her pussy.
Sliding the same two fingers in, I use the thumb to press on her clit as my fingers ride her front wall, exploring, searching.
A sharp inhale from the girl on the bed and a change in texture beneath my hand tell me I’ve found just what I’m looking for. I play with that spot, stroking, pressing, working it when I find the rhythm and pattern that takes her breath away.
Leaning forward, my mouth gravitates back to her clit, and my tongue takes its time playing with its new favorite toy.
My hand, mouth, and fingers work in tandem. One in her pussy, the other roving up her body until it finds her nipple ring and starts toying with it, too, tugging, teasing, tweaking. She gasps softly, urging me on.
I draw it out, not shoving her over the edge this time, but letting the pleasure build slowly, rising within her until it spills out and over, almost gentle in comparison to the harsh abruptness of that first one that ripped through her like lightning.
Her sweet noises, the way she curses, whispers my name in increasingly needy tones as I let the crescendo build gradually until she finally peaks and it bubbles over into long moments of pleasure, it’s going to stick with me.
I pretend it’s her pussy, this physical chemistry between us, that’s what I’m going to miss most. Not the girl who’s the reason for the sting in my chest when I imagine her pulling out of here for good, just hours from now.
FOURTEEN
AMELIA
The first orgasm made me see stars. Electric, like I was lit up from within, a thousand volts straight to my nerve endings.
The second one felt like I was floating among the stars. Soft, gentle, so fucking deeply satisfying, my poor vibrator is never going to do it for me again.
The third and fourth? Let’s just say I can barely breathe, much less form coherent thoughts after them.
“How many times do you make yourself come most nights?” Weston asked me, voice thick and gruff with lust, as his fingers were plunging inside of me, both of us watching.
“Used to be one,” I told him, throat tight.
“And now?” he asked.
“At least three or four,” I told him honestly.
He grunted, accepting my answer, and I think he took it as a challenge. To outperform my rechargeable friend.
It would have only taken one orgasm for that. Any one of the four he’s given me so far would’ve hit that mark, but that first one blew any toy—or other man, for that matter—completely out of the water. I don’t know what the hell possessed him, what took over the body of the Weston I thought I was coming toknow, and turned him into this feral, starving creature with a Hoover for a mouth.
That’s not a complaint, for the record. Just, still spinning, trying to find the new center of gravity after he completely shook me to the core, upending everything I thought I knew about lust, sex, and my own needs, and left me here, shivering, somehow still craving more.
I watch him now, lying next to me in my bed, so tall that his legs hang off the short edge of the mattress. In nothing but dark red boxer briefs, his package is doing its best to set itself free—strangled by the tight, stretchy fabric beneath the elastic waistband—reaching for me, just inches out of his jurisdiction.
Weston has a smile on his face, as usual, but this one is content. Almost bliss. The urgency he used in eating me out within seconds of stepping into my van doesn’t shine through on that golden face, those dark green eyes, bright despite the dim light.
Now he almost looks like the visual representation of the feeling I have when I move things from my “Shit to Do” Pinterest board over to my “Been There, Seen That” board. Pleased. Accomplished. Relishing in the moment, though I know he’s far from done for the night.
One of his strong hands comes out to cup my face, then he pushes it back into my hair, running his fingers through the short, dyed dark strands and fingering them thoughtfully as he lets me catch my breath from number four. Or maybe still from number one.
“Even better than I imagined,” he says quietly, lips so close to mine as we stare at one another’s faces, lying on our sides.
“You haven’t even fucked me yet,” I remind him.
“I meant your taste.” Weston’s eyes glint in the low light. “Fucking delicious.”
Amazingly, his stomach picks this moment, after those words, to rumble so loudly it shatters the mood entirely. Laughter breaks out between us, and I hunch forward, head on his hard, bare chest, body shaking as I give in to the fits of giggles.
“Doesn’t seem like that’s enough for you to live on,” I finally say when I can compose myself, fingers wiping away tears from my eyes.
“I may have skipped dinner so I could get your van done faster and get you to myself,” he admits.
