“If you don’t come, I can’t make you come again.”
Fuck. He’s already planning the next one.
His words are slick, and he slurps at me in such an undignified way I should probably cringe, but it’s just erotic as hell.
When I detonate on his face, the rumble of satisfaction that reverberates through my body from his mouth is everything. Colors and sounds bleed into one, my vision blurs at the edges giving everything a hazy halo, and just as I think I’ve fallen over the edge and am floating back down to earth, he starts again.
This time, he adds his fingers inside me, stroking my g-spot in rhythm like I’m his favorite chord on the guitar.
Back to back orgasms—at least in so far as they’ve concerned me until I met Tate—are a myth. Any time I’ve tried to do a twofer, I got bored and frustrated. Once the first one’s over, the blissed-out tiredness hits your muscles, making them soft and pliable, but also impossible to get going again. The last thing I ever want to do is put all that work in again—even with a toy.
Not to mention, everything’s so fucking sensitive and overstimulated, that it all feels like raw electrical cables, andeverythingmakes you jump and shiver and writhe. It’s never worked for me before, and as much as I want to tell Tate not to bother, I’m kind of curious if the last time was a one off or if he really can tell my body what to do.
I don’t really have much choice. My dude is already going to town, and while it’s taking my body a little time to reboot after being short-circuited by the lashing of his tongue on my go-button, there are sparks of electricity flashing across my skin.
My nipples are hard, and a deep ache is brewing in my core. My fingernails bite into his scalp as I hold him in place, myhips rearing to meet the cadence of his tongue. How he hasn’t drowned yet is anyone’s guess, but as long as he’s content to lap at my clit while fingering my g-spot, I’m content to lie here and take it.
Every now and then, he’ll break his tempo, he’ll drag his teeth across my clit making me shudder, or he’ll suck it into his mouth and pinch it between his lips. He’s not in a rush, he’s taking his time, building me up, and letting me down—just a little bit—before building me all the way back up again.
By the time he lifts his head up to talk to me again, I’m breathless, panting and pleading with him to let me come because I can’t take the teasing anymore. He grins up at me. I swear, no one has ever looked as hot with cum and arousal dripping from their face as this man.
“What’s that, Pitstop? I can’t hear you over the slurpy sounds your soaking wet pussy is making for me. You don’t want to come?”
Thumping the bed next to me, I whine. “Just let me come already, Tate. Please.”
He hums as he puts his face back between my legs. “I love when you ask nicely.” It takes less than a minute of his tongue and finger working in tandem before I burst into stardust and squealing. The second orgasm is deeper, more intense than the first and my legs clamp around his head with such force I wouldn’t be surprised if his head popped off.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This feels... like a rainbow formed inside my body and is trying to break free. He still isn’t stopping, I flop back on the bed, sweat streaming down my face, matting my hair to my temples, and just let him own me.
When I wake up a while later, Tate’s sitting on a beanbag on the floor across the room, seemingly naked, strumming his guitar.
“Why are you all the way over there?” My voice is thick with sleep, suggesting that it wasn't just a fifteen minute nap. “And how long have I been out?” It all comes back to me. “Shit, did I hurt your face with my thighs?” I squeezed him pretty damn hard.
“I’m more than okay.” He jerks his chin at the bed. “You made a mess and were sleeping on the dry side.” His satisfied grin is like the cat that got the fucking cream. “And long enough. You talk in your sleep, you know?”
My eyes pop wide. “I do not.”
He chuckles. “Guess you’ll never know.”
I sit up in bed and pat the space next to me, it’s still wet. “You didn’t get to come.”
Shaking his head, he doesn’t stop plucking the strings. “Didn’t need to. Just needed to suck your soul out your pussy and make you see stars.”
He definitely did that. He licks his lips. “You taste fucking delicious, Pitstop. Only reason I stopped is because you fell asleep, and I didn’t want to violate your unconscious body.”
That’s oddly sweet.
I get up, put my clothes back on, and start stripping off his sheets. There's time to wash them before we need to leave for dinner at his Mom’s. As I pull the sheets off, he strums the chords toYou Belong with Meby Taylor Swift, I can’t help but sing along at the top of my lungs. There’s something about the way she crafts her songs that is addictive, the notes get under your skin and draw you in.
By the time he gets to the chorus, there’s at least two of his teammates singing outside the door, and by the second chorus, they’ve all burst into his room and are having a T-Swift singalong while he’s ass-naked on the beanbag on the floor.
When he starts playingOur Song, the room is uncomfortably full with anyone who has stayed in town for the holiday, andTate’s boxers are draped over the end of his guitar—courtesy of Artemis—and two of the team have pulled the lyrics up on their phone because apparently they live under a rock.
It’s not an everyday occurrence, but my boy is happy. His jaw’s unlocked, he’s smiling with his friends while doing something he loves, and he’s letting it all hang out—literally.
It’s turkey day, and the day where Dad gets to hang out and heal his relationship with the Myers’. As much as I’m a little anxious, I’m also excited. I can’t wait to spend the rest of the holiday making new memories with my guy, his parents, Dad and Oli, and a delicious feast.
CHAPTER 33
