Page 26 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

She tips her hips up into his hand. “You want it to be yours tonight?” she teases. “Bet you like hearin’ that, huh?”

His thumb dips and presses against her opening, then slides up, collectin’ drip from hole to clit. “Don’t need to hear it,” he says, liftin’ his soaked thumb, a cocky-ass grin heatin’ his mouth. “Already fuckin’ know.”

He smells her first, then sucks her arousal off his skin.

Look, smell, taste—a triple health check before his mouth goes anywhere. If somethin’s off, he’s out. Call it instinct, but he trusts his gut more than anything and likes to believe his three-for-three ritual’s the reason he’s stayed clean ten years runnin’. Never broke that rule for nobody.

“Mmm… Goddamn, you taste good.”

He’ll tell every girl this, too, even if it ain't true.

Head lowerin’, he glances up with a smirk, the illusion of lookin’ at her face, but his gaze stops at her neck. He can’t meet her eyes. The second he does, girls look down hopin’ it means more. And he ain’t got more. He’s not here to manipulate ‘em or confuse ‘em. He’s only here to please.

He traces the inside of her thigh with his lips, edging closer. “Pretty pussy, wet as hell, and you’re lettin’ me get drunk on it.”

Her knees drift wider, hips tiltin’ up. “So… we talkin’ magic pussy, or what?” she asks, voice foggy. “This the one that’ll ruin all the girls who come after me?”

He laughs, brushin' his bottom lip across her clit, watchin' it jump. He ain't answerin' that. He ain't feedin' that sick little lie that says she gotta compete. That she's only special if another girl loses.

Once he gets started, she’s moanin’ and sinkin’ into the counter.

He knocks out the first orgasm fast. Non-negotiable, in case shit goes sideways. Interruptions, bomb goes off, whatever. He ain’t lettin’ her die or walk out with nothin’, regrettin’ it, or have a reason to say it was average.

The first orgasm is a guarantee.

The second is expected.

The third a luxury.

Any more after that? A bonus.

The second he clocked her scent and taste, he blocked it out.

That’s the second purpose of the three-for-three ritual.

He learns her senses so he can go numb to ‘em. It’s how he can eat for hours and keep himself outta the way. He won’t taste or smell a goddamn thing unless he wants to. And he never fuckin’ wants to. Smellin’ and tastin' them is the part that turns it intimate.

Truth is, every time he got down there, it felt borrowed.

Like he was eatin’ someone else’s girl.

He keeps his eyes low or closed, focusin’ on the shake in her thighs, the way she’s clawin’ the edge, breath chopped. She’s about to come again, he’s barely gotta work for it. He knows with a Papercut Pussy, less is more.

She slaps her hand against the wall as if she’s callin’ time. He smirks between her folds, then seals his mouth wide and sucks her clit gentle. Can’t tap out of this one, sweetheart.

“Holy shit—I can’t take it—I can’t—okay stop! But don’t fuckin’ stop!”

Her foot kicks up and smashes the paper towel dispenser off the wall. Thing clatters down, and the roll shoots out, hobblin’ across his Nikes. Her hand scrambles for somethin’ to hold, hittin’ the faucet. She grips the knob, poppin’ that off too.

And then she’s got her fist in his hair. Her spine melts, back slidin’ down the mirror, hips slippin’ forward. He keeps her in his mouth ‘til her heels shake in the air and she’s foldin’ in half with her chin buried into her chest.

And then she comes.

…Or goes, Andrew thinks.

‘Cause it sounds like she’s dyin’.

A growl rumbles out, rollin’ into a groan-like scream as if Hell’s openin’ its gates from inside her—a deep, savage grunting that claws up from the goddamn earth. And then he’s fuckin’ laughin’ into her pussy.