Page 25 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Andrew’s barely got his elbow on the bar, tryin’ to flag down the bartender, when he feels a hand slide over his knuckles, a sticky mouth grazin’ his neck.

“You remember me?” she purrs. “You were my bartender at the Clover. Told me you didn’t do that shit at work. Said next time I catch you on the other side of the bar, that mouth was mine.”

Peter lets out a dry laugh into his drink. “Jesus Christ, Jersey.” He shakes his head. “Can’t even get your drink order in.”

Andrew glances over his shoulder. The girl eases back to look him in the eyes, expectin’ him to recognize her. But he doesn’t. Never does. Nothin’ personal. He doesn’t even recognize himself.

She’s standin’ crooked, weight dumped on one hip, ankle twisted out. He’s bettin’ the heels are brand new and she’s already got blisters.

When he don’t say nothin’, she sinks closer, smellin' like lavender laced with old cigarette smoke. “So… you still got that magic mouth?”

That magic mouth shit gets under Andrew’s skin. Every time someone says it, he hears what it really means: You’re good for one thing, and one thing only.

Peter’s wearin’ his trademark shit-eatin’ grin as he watches from his stool.

Andrew turns back into the bar, like she ain't fuckin' nothin'. “Depends… you got a magic pussy?” he says it to be an ass, so she knows what it feels like to be reduced to a body part. “Magic mouth don’t come out for nothin’ mid, sweetheart.”

She slips her hand into his. “Why don’t you come find out?”

“Damn. Aight, no patience, huh.” He chuckles, glancin’ off. “You single?”

Her eyes fall deadpan. “Yes. I’m single.”

The second she whispered hot in his ear, he was no longer the guy fucked up over a dead kiss. He’s Magic Mouth—one door away from center stage.

As soon as they reach the bathroom, and that lock clicks, he’s hauling her up onto the counter. Her ass hits the laminate, and her legs stiffen around him, thighs drawin’ in tight, stuck in that space between wantin’ it and overthinkin’ it. He knows from the jump she ain’t lookin’ for a fantasy. She’s either got a crush or probably never been eaten right, and she’s dyin’ to know what that’s like.

But he ain't touchin' her until she's sure. So he stands between her spread thighs, hands hooked into his back pockets. She can reach for whatever she needs—his waist, his chest, his shoulders, his neck if that’s where she feels safe.

Anywhere but under his clothes. Anywhere but his dick.

Sweetheart wants his waist, both of her hands lockin’ around his sides. As she pulls him closer, he follows, his hands leavin’ his pockets and findin’ her knees.

“You don’t owe me shit, alright?” he says into her neck, hands slidin’ up her thighs, takin’ her skirt with ‘em. He moves carefully, trackin’ every skip in her breath. “Don’t gotta do nothin’ for me. Don’t gotta be nothin’ but you.” He’s starin’ at his reflection in the mirror as he says it, wishin’ that was true for himself.

Her thighs melt, fallin’ open, and that’s all he needs.

“Yeah? You lettin’ me in, sweetheart?” he still asks. “Gimme the green light. ‘Cause once I get a taste of what’s under here,” he runs his fingertip up the middle of her panties, “I ain’t fuckin’ stoppin’.”

She nods, and he lines her up the way he likes—knees up, thighs spread, pussy laid out, dead center and on display for him.

Girls hide shit. Sometimes it’s nerves. Sometimes it’s shame.

Sometimes it’s insecurity, somethin’ they think he might change his mind about. But worse, sometimes, it’s contagious. So, nah. If he’s goin’ down, he’s seein’ everything first. Spread her so wide she can’t lie or hide.

She don’t gotta be perfect, only safe.

He’s got her knees pinned back, pink lace stretched tight over her pussy. “Fuck,” he murmurs, eyes locked on the damp spot. “You gettin’ wet just from thinkin’ about this, huh?” He hooks the edge of her panties and slides ‘em aside, revealin’ a pussy that’s bare, wet, and beggin’ for his mouth.

Pink, thin folds, no padding—clit jumpy and sensitive to the point of pain. Papercut Pussy, he calls this type. Delicate, yet dangerous if mishandled.

He only names 'em 'cause pussies are all unique, and they all need to be touched differently.

“Ay, you tryna kill me with this?” he rasps, lookin’ for anything off—bumps, breaks, spots, sores. He knows what healthy looks like. He’s been clean too long to get lazy now. “You got the prettiest fuckin’ pussy.”

Andrew tells them all this. Ain’t none of ‘em ugly. Pussies come how they come, and you take care of what’s in front of you.

Meanwhile, he’s analyzin’ everything. Is she breathin’ right? Does she flinch? Is she really here, or just sayin’ yes out loud but gone like him?