It's arousal.
Her eyes are glassy now, pupils wide, mascara running in black streaks down her cheeks. She looks absolutely ruined and we've barely started.
I pull out completely. Let her gasp and cough and catch her breath. Then push back in, and this time I don't stop. Don't pause. Just keep sliding deeper until my cock is buried completely in her throat and her nose is pressed against my pelvis.
She gags violently, her whole body convulsing with the reflex, but her hands stay on my thighs. No tapping. Just gripping harder, nails digging into my skin.
I hold there. Count to five in my head while she struggles.
When I finally pull back, she sucks in air desperately through her nose, drool and spit dripping down her chin. Her lips are swollen, her face flushed, her eyes streaming.
She's never looked more beautiful.
"Color?" I ask, giving her the check-in she needs.
"Green," she gasps. "So fucking green."
I smile. Can't help it. "You want me to fuck your face properly now?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "Please, Jino. Please fuck my throat."
I like the yes.
I like the yesa lot.
Not just because I'm getting something out of this, either. But because it makes me feel like we've got things in control here. Like this… this whole arrangement might actually be working.
But my answer is, "No. That's enough." and I tuck my cock back in my sweats.
"But Jino!" She begins to complain, and insist, and throw her little Emmaleen tantrum.
I stop her there. "When you do it, Emmaleen, don't you want it to be Giovanni you're doing it with? You don't want it to be me. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd love it if you did. But this isn't about me."
She does a dramatic melting thing here where she collapses onto the floor in a heap. "Way to ruin the mood…"
I laugh and grab her hand, then pull her up to her feet. "Come on, let's get dressed. We've got a diner and a thrift store with our names on them."
When she gets up, heading towards the closet where she keeps clothes here, I smack her playfully in the ass. The look she shoots me over her shoulder is pure comic relief. "Promises, promises…"
Yeah, I think, taking the stairs to my bedroom two at a time.
Promises.
To ourselves. To each other.
That's what this whole thing is built on.
Knowing our lanes.
Where our hearts are, where our loyalties lie, and the limits that divide us.
I like my lane.
I get Emmaleen Rourke all week long. It's just her and me, doing our thing, . She's quite literally my best friend these days.
No, she doesn't write me poetry.
No one is giving her lessons on how to please me.
