Page 21 of My Girl to Take

“Wider.”

I do that too. My face burns as I process how exposed I am. I can feel the air on me, and he stands there and looks his fill, taking his time about it.

“Good girl.”

He drops to his knees.

“Now, here’s what’s about to happen,” he says, and his voice hasn’t risen at all. It’s conversational, which is somehow the filthiest thing about it. “I’m going to use my mouth on you until you come. Then I’m going to keep going because the second one is better, and you don’t know that yet. Then I’m going to fill you—first with my fingers, then my cock—and I want you looking at me the whole time.” His thumb strokes once across the inside of my thigh. “Your hand stays where it is. If it moves, I stop. Nod if you understand me.”

I nod.

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

“Then don’t be quiet. There’s no one here but me.”

He puts his mouth on the inside of my knee.

Not where I expected. Not close to it. He works his way up the inside of my thigh with his lips and the flat of his tongue, unhurried, taking whole minutes about it, and every inch he covers makes the next one harder to bear. By the time he reaches the crease of my hip, I’m shaking. He stops there and breathes me in, and I make a sound I have never made in my life.

“Please—”

“There she is.”

Then his mouth is on me properly, and everything else fades away.

He starts slow. One long, flat stroke of his tongue from bottom to top, so unhurried I feel every part of it. I arch straight off the bed. His forearm comes across my hips and pins me down, and he does it again, exactly the same, and again, until I can only whimper in response.

Then he narrows it.

His tongue finds my clit, making my vision white out at the edges. He circles it—slow at first, then tighter, then flicking, then broad and soft again just when I think I know what’s coming, so I can never quite catch the rhythm and get ahead of it. When I try to close my legs, he pushes them wider with his free hand and holds them there.

“Logan—”

“Mm.”

The hum goes straight through me, and I sob.

He draws me into his mouth then, gentle suction, his tongue still working underneath it, and something starts building low in my stomach. It isn’t pleasure exactly. It’s pressure, and it’s frightening. It’s climbing, and my free hand comes up off the bed toward his hair.

“Down,” he says against me.

I put it down. It nearly kills me. He rewards me by going harder.

I feel his fingers then, two of them, tracing where his mouth has made me slick, circling without pressing in—teasing at me until I’m lifting my hips trying to make it happen myself. He lets me try for a while before he gives it to me.

One finger, slowly, all the way.

The stretch is strange and enormous, and I gasp. He stills and lets me get used to it. Then he starts moving—in and out, unhurried, curling toward the front on every withdrawal until he finds a spot that makes my whole body jolt.

“There,” he says, satisfied. “That.”

He works it. Mouth and finger together, the same rhythm, relentless, and the pressure builds until it’s unbearable, until it’s actually frightening. I hear myself saying I can’t, I can’t, I can’t over and over like it’s one word.

“You can,” he says. “Let go. Come for me.”

I break.