“What,” I say. Words? Ha. “Like. You want me to make noise?”
“Sure,” she says, and then her mouth is busy again.
“Or you want me to talk?” I go on, and now I’ve got both hands in her hair, and I’m not hurting her and I’m not holding her, not really, but if I do—just a little, just for a second—she makes that noise again. “I can talk,” I say, which is technicallytrue. “I can tell you how pretty you are right now, but I think you know. I think when you get on your knees like this you know exactly what it does to me. Holy shit. Jesus Christ. How am I supposed to?—”
She swallows around the head of my dick again, and this time I hold her there, fingers tangled in her hair, for half a second longer. When she pulls off, we’re both panting. Her eyes are shining.
“Are you?—”
“Do that again,” she says. “And don’t come.”
“Fuck, you’re bossy.”
“You said I had to tell you what I wanted.” She takes one hand off my thigh and slides it between her legs, rubbing the heel of it against herself. “And I want you to do that a few more times, and then I want you to fuck me.”
She doesn’t wait for a response, just slides her mouth onto my dick, and I oblige her request, both hands in her hair, and I babble on and there’s lots of swearing, of taking the Lord’s name extremely in vain, of the wordsso prettyandso good.
Per her instructions, I don’t come, but finally I have to pull her off and hold her there, head tilted backward.
“I can’t,” I say. Her eyes are glassy and her lips are pink, and she grins at me like she’s the cat who got the cream. I run a thumb along her lower lip because I can’t stop myself, and she licks it.
“You’re gonna fuck me, right?” she asks, my thumb still on her lip, and I have to take a breath. I think about a world where we have all day for this. Where I can come in her and on her. Make a mess. Where I can spend an hour with my face between her thighs and see what she likes best.
A world where we go on wintertime walks together and hold hands and sometimes, for no reason at all, she leans into me and I can put my arm around her, kiss her if?—
But that’s asking for too much, so instead I nod dumbly and point at my bedroom, partitioned off behind a bookshelf and a curtain. Madeline rocks to her feet, then kisses the top of my head—confusingly sweet but also hot, like it’s a promise, and Jesus Christ am I going to get horny about head kisses for the rest of my life now?—and walks through the curtain.
I take a moment because, holy hell, I need one, and then I follow her.
Madeline’s sprawled on my bed. It’s unmade, but thank god I changed the sheets three days ago, before people came over. All the shit I moved out of the rest of my place is stacked around it, but it’s too late to worry about that.
I lean against the bookcase, curtain swishing shut behind me, fold my arms over my chest, and try to look as casual as I can with the world’s hardest, leaking-est dick, her spit still drying on it.
“I already told you what I wanted,” she says, going up on her elbows. Her shirt is long-sleeved and loose, and I can see where the waist of her leggings cuts into the soft curve of her belly.
“And yet there you are, fully dressed,” I say. “Seems like you missed some steps.”
“Come over here and take my clothes off.”
I cross the room and kneel between her spread legs, pushing them wider. The leggings are bright purple, and I run my hands up her inner thighs until my thumbs meet in the middle, somewhere near her clit. The fabric is slightly damp, and I have to suck in a breath.
“What?” She sounds little defensive.
“I guess we both like it when you’re on your knees.”
“Are you going to undress me, or do I have to do it myself?”
Madeline in full-on horny-brat mode is a sight. I reach behind her, manage to unhook her bra, and then push that and her shirt over her head to her wrists, leaning over. Watching herand the way her lips part and her pupils swell and her cheeks go pinker, all the way down to her chest, her arms over her head. There’s a pink line around her ribs where her bra band was, and it gives me an idea.
“Hold still,” I tell her, then gather the fabric between her wrists, her hands still trapped in the arms of the shirt, and twist. It brings her wrists together and lets me hold them both at once in the world’s softest, least-effective handcuffs. I barely catch the soft noise that comes out of her mouth.
“Does that hurt?” I ask, and she shakes her head. I squeeze the fabric a little more, get it tighter around her wrists, but it’s T-shirt material, not rope or something. “Do you like it?”
She nods, ribs expanding under her skin.
“Hm?”
Madeline rolls her eyes. “Yes,” she says. “Colloquially, a nod usually denotes?—”
