So I do. I climb onto my bed and yank my shirt over my head, throwing it to the floor. I lay my body over hers as I find her lips again. Her hands tentatively skate over my chest.
And I jump back with a curse.
Maybe not entirely disappeared.
“Your hands are fucking freezing,” I say.
She narrows her eyes in annoyance. “I walked here. Of course they’re freezing.”
I take both her hands in mine. Give her a scolding look, then press the first of her fingers to my mouth. I move to the next, kissing that. Probe the pad of her fingertip with my tongue. From one digit to the next, I repeat my attentions, my eyes glued to her hazel ones, as she heaves breath after breath. She drifts a thumb over my lips, and I nibble it before covering her with my body again. Wedging my hips between hers, I grind into that tempting heat between her thighs. Her hands, soft and now thoroughly warmed, grip me to her, pulling me closer.
I sink my hands into her hair, loosening her ponytail to feel soft and thick copper strands under my fingers. I want to take it out completely, watch that red hair sway as she rides me. Muss it up. So when she walks back home, anyone who’d see her would know she’d been well and truly fucked. But at the same time, I want to reenact that fantasy I’d had at Kellermann’s. Of holding it as she takes me in her mouth.
Why not both? Like I’d told her, we have all fucking night.
Our lips joined, I push her shirt off her arms, unclasp her bra and pull that off, too. Then I dip my head to her breast and circle each nipple with my tongue. I roll both tits in my hands, kneading them under my palms.
She’s still so fucking quiet, aside from her hiked breathing. But those reddened cheeks and blazing hazel eyes that focus on my every move tell a different story. She enjoys this. Way more than she lets on.
I know what will make her loud.
I sit up, hooking my hands under her waistband and dragging the rest of her clothes off. Flannel pants and lace panties—something I would have loved to explore had I more restraint than I do right now. She makes a peep of protest and tries to close her legs. I grab her knees and spread her to me. To that part of her that has her making that ashamed, squeezed eye look again, as my mouth waters to taste her.
So, with her eyes closed, I do just that.
Her hips buck under my mouth. I chuckle, hands steady on keeping her knees open as I slide my tongue flat over her clit. I suck it into my mouth, deliver a series of alternating sucks and licks before dipping my tongue deeper inside her folds.
And then she does it. Releases a deep, shuddering breath, and moans.
Fuck. Fuck, that’s hot. She’s hot, legs relaxing under my hold so I can smooth my hands over them. Squeeze the fleshy inside of her thighs. Shift her so my lips can move easier over her. Work my mouth and her hips in tandem, licking every inch of her pussy. Use my fingers to spread folds slick with my saliva, flicking that pink bud with the underside of my tongue.
I slide a hand over the front of my sweats. Grasp my cock and slowly drag up and down, my movements directed by how long she draws out each moan. I close my eyes, savoring the taste of her on my tongue, the sounds of her pleasure in my ears, the feel of my cock in my hand and my lips around her clit. And I remember I have all night. That I can make Kennedy do this over and over until we’re both spent.
The thought, the exciting prospect of doing this again, even though we haven’t finished this first act yet, makes me growl with eager, impatient craving.
She cries out. Pushes my head away. I glance up as she comes.
And then I growl again.
With anger.
I’ve been with a lot of women. Made each and every one of them come, whether it be with my tongue or my dick or my fingers. I know the signs by now.
The arching back. Curling toes. Feverish flush to their skin. No two are the same. Some tremble, others have to bite a pillow to quiet themselves. They tense, they squirm, grab bedposts, shout obscenities. They dig their nails into my back or their pussy into my face.
None of which describes Kennedy’s climax. A half-assed moan. Eyes open wide. Mouth barely parted. Hands pushing me away from her.
So when she rises on her elbows, nodding and telling me how good it was, I sit back on my heels and glare at her.
“Did you just fucking fake it?”
13
Kennedy
If there’s one thing I forgot to add to my pro/con list, it’s this: What if Spencer finds out what a great, big faker I am?
I balk as that dark scowl stares me down. Sitting up, I pull up the navy blue blanket from his bed and tuck it under my arms, needing something to block me from the twitch of anger at his temple. His gaze darts down to it, like he wants to rip it off me, and I hold it closer over my nakedness.
He wipes a thumb over his bottom lip where it glints with wetness—from me, I realize. And the thought sends another zing straight to my core at the memory of his mouth there. I want to go back in time, minutes ago. When I’d laid on my back with my eyes closed and let him worship me with his tongue and he hadn’t looked at me with red hot fury in his gaze.
“Did you.
