Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
So wet. Maybe as wet as I am, down there. In my pussy.
Clutching his wrists harder, I lean against him, both restless and in relief. I’ve been dying all this time. To feel him like this. For him to cross the line that I’ve already crossed ages ago.
Moaning, I press harder against him, plastering my body over his, almost draping it, and he groans into my mouth.
“You do taste like lemons,” he rasps, licking the seam of my lower lip.
My hands sink into his hair, then. All soft and velvety and dark. They make me smile. “It’s the lime jello,” I repeat, looking into his hooded eyes.
“Fucking hate lime jello.”
“Me too.” I lick my lips and his nostrils flare. “B-but you should try the ones here. They taste good. Like, so good.”
His fingers move from my face to my hair, undoing my loose topknot. “Yeah.” Burying his hands in the strands, he whispers not to me, but to my lips, “And that’s the problem, isn’t it?”
I don’t get what he means, but I don’t have the time to think over it before he covers my mouth again. This time his rhythm is not as slow. It’s thorough though. So thorough that I feel his lips all over my body. I feel them on my throat, the back of my neck, my stomach, my thighs.
I have a feeling the earlier soft and slow kiss was only the beginning. He was sampling my lips, getting a taste of them. Warming them up. So he can do more. So much more.
And he does.
He thrusts his tongue inside my mouth, taking me by surprise, and I fist his hair, going up on my tiptoes. My lips open wide as I take him in, as I take a part of his body inside mine, and something clicks into place.
I feel like I needed that, his tongue inside my mouth, tasting, sweeping, licking. Hungry. I needed to be his food, his sustenance, like he’s become mine.
Latching on to his tongue, I suck on it like my life depends on getting his flavor, filling my belly with it. It makes him go wild. It makes him growl inside my mouth like he’s more than a man. He’s an animal. A carnivore.
Simon maneuvers my face so he can go deeper, and so I open my mouth wider. Like a receptacle of some sort. For him. For his rainy, fresh taste. For his tongue.
Even his teeth.
They nip at the seam of my lips, sending sparks down to my pussy that’s just getting sloppier and sloppier with every second.
Drenched. That’s what my core is. Like the grounds outside. It’s a stormy day and the rain is coming down hard, like Simon’s mouth on mine.
Grunting, he’s slamming it over and over, his fingers fisted in my hair. He’s feeding on my mouth like I’m feeding on him. I’m sucking and swallowing, eating him up.
But his sucks and pulls and tugs have a purpose. They are selfless, unlike my selfish ones. They are curing me.
Yes, my medicine man is curing me, purifying my blood, vacuuming the illness out of me.
With his mouth, his kisses, he’s drinking down all my poison. That thing inside me that gives me blue eyes. He’s making me cleaner, healthier. He’s purging me.
He’s making me happy.
The thing that’s as elusive to me as love.
I feel myself getting lighter, more pliable, until all I can feel is him and his ridged, sculpted body. I arch my spine. I push my breasts – restless and heavy with engorged nipples – into his chest and clutch his shoulders.
“Simon…” I whimper when he lets me come up for air.
“Don’t talk,” he orders and resumes kissing me.
Jesus.
His authority will kill me. I’m so fucking wet right now. I moan with how swollen I am. I’m almost tempted to let go of him and rub my pussy. Shamelessly masturbate as he cures me.
Or better yet, have him do it. I want to shove his hand between my legs and ask him to touch me there.
I can almost see it.
I can almost feel his big hand between my legs, his fingers pinching my clit, grabbing my cunt. I can almost see myself riding his fingers, humping it like I do my pillow. I’ll drench his wrist; I know that. I’ll cream his palm like I’m creaming my panties and he’ll watch me do it.
But how can I be selfish and ask him to rub my pussy when he’s making me feel so good? I need to make him feel good, too. I need to give him something. And then, I know how. I feel him. On my stomach.
His cock. His thick, hard arousal pressing into my flesh.
And he is hard. And hot. And so big. Like a pipe or something. It makes me feel so small, smaller and more feminine than I’ve ever felt.