“You sure?”
“Mm-hmm. You’ve been feeding me all day.”
I’d swallowed him down every time he’d let me, first from my mouth, then from my skin, then from his fingers pushed deep inside me. I was obsessed with it, the thick, salty heat of him coating my throat, filling me up, marking me from the inside. He’d scoop it off my stomach, my breasts, my thighs, and I’d open for him like it was the only thing I ever wanted to drink. All day. Every drop. I could still feel it, warm and heavy inside me, and I still was craving more.
He laughed under his breath, the sound vibrating through me, and I struggled not to moan when his piercing hit me just right. “I meant real food,” he murmured. “I think we burned through a week’s worth of calories.”
Heat rose to my cheeks, even though the words weren’t teasing, not exactly. There was something soft in the way he said it. Like he was still in awe that I was really there.
A pause stretched between us, not uncomfortable, just full. I could feel him thinking.
“What’s your favorite movie?” he asked suddenly, his voice drowsy, the kind of tone that came from hours of lazy, half sleep. He’d been doing that all day…asking things. Between the kisses and the laughter and the slow, endless tangling of limbs, he’d kept slipping in questions like he was trying to map me from the inside out. Like knowing me was something he couldn’t get enough of either.
I blinked, trying to think. “Um…I don’t know. I used to likePretty Woman. My mom had it on DVD.”
“Good choice,” he said, pressing a small kiss to my shoulder. “Classic.”
His fingers kept tracing slow patterns against my skin, gentle and aimless. “What about favorite food?”
I didn’t answer out loud. I just thought it, dreamy and shameless.You. Your cum. It’s my new favorite food, salty and warm and all mine.
He huffed, like he’d heard every word in my head. “Besides my cum, dirty girl.”
I winked at him, and he pulled me closer. “Anything sweet,” I murmured.
He hummed, his breath warm against my ear. “I would’ve guessed that. You’re so sweet.”
It was corny, but I loved it anyway. My lips curved before I could stop them, a quiet, helpless smile I buried against his arm. No one had ever said things like that to me and meant them, not like he seemed to, soft and certain, like sweetness was something good to be.
He kept asking things. My favorite color. Where I wanted to travel. If I believed in luck.
And every question made me ache a little more.
Because I realized I hadn’t askedhima single thing.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. It was that I alreadyknew.
I knew his favorite number—the one on his jersey, the one he’d worn since he was twelve. I knew what he ate before every game. I knew what kind of music he played when he drove home from practice, what brand of body wash he used, how he hated being late and was a creature of habit.
Which made him skipping practice today a really big deal.
I knew the names of his siblings, the way he laughed when he was trying not to, the exact spot on his cheek where his dimple appeared if you caught him off guard.
I knew too much.
And suddenly that knowledge, all those stolen details, felt too heavy to hold.
He shifted behind me, his arm tightening slightly, pulling me closer until my back was flush with his chest.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his lips brushing my shoulder.
“Just thinking,” I whispered.
“About what?”
“You.”
He laughed softly, a breath against my skin. “Good answer.”
