“I’ve never been called that,” I mumbled against him, still refusing to look at him.
He pulled back enough so that he could grasp my chin and force my gaze to meet his.
His eyes were warm butterscotch.
“I can’t wait to make you fall apart again.”
My cheeks flamed with heat. “Brooks . . .”
“Why are you so embarrassed? There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Not the emotion. Not the fact that you made my ears ring because you screamed so loud. You’re gorgeous when you come.”
I lowered my lashes.
“You’re acting like no one’s ever . . . Wait. Has no one ever taken care of you before?”
“Let’s not talk about that,” I muttered.
I was still exposed, raw. The post-orgasmic glow was fading. And in its place came trepidation.
“No, don’t do that,” he said gruffly, stopping me from attempting to pull the covers up to conceal myself.
“You’re fully dressed,” I replied. “I’m not.”
“Yeah, but you’re embarrassed. Why?”
“Brooks,” I whined.
“No, Freckles. Tell me what’s going on in your head.”
He pulled up the coverlet and wrapped his arms around me again, so I was burritoed against him.
“No one’s ever . . .” I trailed off.
“Gone down on you? Or made you come?”
“Both.”
His arms tightened around me. “What? How is that possible?”
The truth lodged in my throat—I’d fooled around, but it had never gone farther than under the shirt petting and dry humping. So, I kept it to myself and let him think I’d had selfish lovers.
“A lot of men don’t like to please women that way,” I said.
“A lot of men are shit bags.”
I giggled and the tension left my body. I sagged against him.
“There you are,” he whispered, trailing his lips across my head. “Don’t ever be afraid to ask for what you want from me. I’ll do anything you want.”
“Anything?” I asked, finally lifting my head to look at him.
He brushed the messy hair from my face. “Anything.”
“What if I want . . .”
“Yes?”
“To taste you?” I asked boldly.
