And right now, feasting on her, I realize that I’m barreling straight into an explosive orgasm, and there’s nothing I can do about it except keep going and grab Leela’s panties that I’ve secretly stashed under the bed. I try to keep it low-key, but this woman makes my head and body explode.
“Fuck. Oh my fuck!” I roar and cuss and partially spurt into her damp panties.
It takes every ounce of strength to stop.
“What happened?” Leela whispers. “Are you okay?”
“More. Need more.”
Hardly an acceptable answer. The more Leela talks—hell, all she has to do is breathe audibly or simply exist—the more I think I might die if I don’t come now. I may black out, but I don’t miss a beat.
I suck and tease Leela through it all, relentlessly, keeping up my attention to her nethers until she can stand no more. My Leela comes so fucking hard, her muscles bear down on my tongue and fingers. A rough cry rips from her throat, along with some creative cursing that makes me smile.
“Fuck me on a goddamn roller coaster,” she wails, her fingers pulling my hair.
I come up for air briefly, then kiss her mouth, sharing her taste with her. “I thought I told you to keep your hands to yourself.”
“Oops,” she says with a saucy little innocent shrug.
I hold her tight as I kiss her thoroughly through her aftershocks, my arms rigid with the concentration it takes to get my balls to calm down. Eventually, she pushes me off her.
I watch her sweet, round ass disappear into the bathroom and laugh. The truth is, I liked it when she went rogue and pulled my hair. She won’t be punished for that.
Yet.
EIGHT
Leela
When I emergefrom the bathroom, I expect Crosby to be asleep.
Instead, the lights are on, and I find Crosby cooking scrambled eggs in the kitchen.
As if anticipating my questions, he pronounces, “Need sustenance.”
I don’t bother pointing out that it’s now five a.m. Besides, orgasms tend to wake me up rather than put me to sleep, so honestly, I’m happy to see the same happens to him.
Yeah, I also don’t bother bringing up the fact that I know he kinda sorta nutted, maybe. It’s not like it’s hard to tell; the guy hulked out on me—he got so vigorous I thought we might break the bed. Honestly, I’m flattered. Clearly, he enjoys that…enjoys doing…that…to me. That thought makes me feel flushed again, like the first honeymoon phase of a relationship. Except…don’t delude yourself, sister. This ain’t a committed relationship.
He’s not interested in a relationship. What would my granny say? “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?” Ugh. Granny, get out of my head.
If that’s how enthusiastically he eats pussy, I can’t imagine what that peen will do to me. The neighbors are gonna call the cops for sure.
I tighten the robe’s belt around me and thank the good lord that man is not cooking naked. Is it weird that cooking naked seems less sexy than what he’s wearing now? Low-slung, red-checked flannel pajama pants.
My stomach growls so loud that Crosby looks up from the stove. The grin he gives me makes me shudder in a good way. Ugh. My body has a mind of its own, and that mind is the drunk, horny girlfriend who is an absolute gremlin for the D.
“Hey,” he says.
“I’m surprised you’re awake.”
He divides the eggs between two mismatched plates using a fork, then adds some toast that pops up from the toaster. I remind myself to buy the man a rubber scraper. Suddenly I correct myself. Partners buy rubber scrapers for their significant others. Not indentured servants. I’m not buying this man anything. Especially not a man who shells out ten grand at the drop of a hat. And furthermore, why does a man who can do that not have proper kitchen utensils?
“Eh, my circadian rhythm is fucked anyway. Good preparation for med school and residency, I guess.”
I step into the kitchen—or the five-square-foot patch of linoleum that houses the sink, quaintly tiny fridge, and a microwave. I can now see that the stove is nothing more than a two-burner electric thing that sits on the counter. “Is that a camping stove?”
“Yep,” he answers, handing me my plate.