"Kristen." Nico's hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "You don't have to. But I want your pussy on my face while your mouth is on my cock. Understood?"
I'm climbing over him, positioning myself so my knees bracket his head and his length is right there, thick and hard and waiting.
"Good girl." His breath ghosts over my inner thigh.
I wrap my hand around him. He's big. I knew that from before, but it's different now, up close, with my mouth inches away. I lick a stripe up the underside, and his hips jerk.
"Cazzo."
His hands grip my thighs, pulling me down, and then his tongue is on me.
I take him in my mouth. Too fast, too deep. I gag, eyes watering, but the growl that vibrates against my core makes it worth it. He licks me harder, his tongue finding that spot that makes my vision blur.
I try again. Slower this time. Hollowing my cheeks, taking as much as I can. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes but every sound he makes feeds something hungry inside me.
His tongue circles my clit. I moan around his cock.
"That's it." His voice is muffled, rough. "Just like that."
I find a rhythm. Mouth and hand working together while he devours me from below. His grip on my thighs is bruising now,holding me exactly where he wants me. Every time I gag, he growls and licks harder, like my struggle turns him on.
The pressure builds, coiling tighter with every stroke of his tongue. I'm close and I can feel him tensing beneath me too, his hips rocking up to meet my mouth.
"Don't stop," he commands against my flesh.
I couldn't stop if I wanted to.
The orgasm crashes through me like a wave, and I cry out around him, the sound vibrating through his length. He follows seconds later, spilling into my mouth while his fingers dig crescents into my skin.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
Then he's pulling me down beside him, tucking me against his chest like I belong there. His heart pounds against my cheek.
"Better?" he asks.
I laugh. It's breathless, almost giddy. "Yeah."
"Good."
Nico
I don't sleep.
Not because I can't, though insomnia and I are old friends, but because watching Kristen breathe feels more important than rest. Her chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, lips slightly parted, one hand tucked beneath her cheek like a child.
I've been lying here for thirty minutes, looking the curve of her jaw, the scatter of freckles across her nose I nevernoticed before, the way her eyelashes cast tiny shadows on her cheekbones.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I don't do this. I've never done this. Women don't stay in my bed long enough to fall asleep. That's the rule. Sex, shower, goodbye. Clean. Efficient. No complications.
The last woman who tried to stay—Amelia, maybe six months ago—got a car service and a firm suggestion that her own bed would be more comfortable. She called me cold. Called me a lot of things, actually, none of them flattering.
She wasn't wrong.
But Kristen's here. In my sheets. Her vanilla shampoo mixing with the scent of sex and sweat on my pillows. And I told her to stay. Insisted she stay.
I reach out before I can stop myself, brushing a strand of chestnut hair from her face. She doesn't stir. Just keeps breathing, trusting me enough to be unconscious and vulnerable.
