Page 118 of For Real

“It’s all about the combination anyway.” He dipped his finger into the second bowl and scooped up a floof of white foam. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

Toby’s finger slid between my lips, filling my mouth—which already tasted of him—with sugar and lemons. “Oh.”

“It’s good, isn’t it?” He sounded smug, but he deserved to.

I nodded, twisting my tongue around his finger, chasing up the last few streaks of curd.

“More?”

“Yes. Yes, please.”

He wriggled, pushing against the table. “God, Laurie, are you trying to make me come again? I love it when you beg.”

And I loved it when he made me beg.

He swept up another fingerful of curd and frosting and smeared it across my parted lips before swooping in to kiss me.

It was a sticky mess of tongues, the flavours sweet and tart and Toby-warmed. Perhaps with anyone else, I might have hated it. But not with him. I was as powerless against his playfulness as his cruelty, and just as hopelessly enchanted, as desperate to please. My pulse quickened, the tight thrill of submission jumping again inside me, as he licked lemon from the corners of my mouth and left me breathless, moaning softly.

He tugged the bowl of curd a little closer and dipped in once again. “Oh, whoops.” He didn’t even try to sound convincing as he twisted his wrist on the way up to my lips and flicked lemon across my already too-sensitive nipples.

I screamed.

Fuck, it was fucking searing. And I was so hard my cock hurt too.

Toby leaned in and very gently cleaned me up, the tip of his tongue tracing the golden spiral across my skin, leaving a shimmering wake of damp heat, soothed pain, and gathering pleasure.

God, the sounds I made for him. I had no control. No desire for it.

He looked up, smiling. “I always knew you’d taste good with lemon.”

“Oh, Toby, please.”

“Please what?”

I writhed, hurting myself now and not caring. He steadied me with his hands. “I don’t know…just…just…please.”

I had no notion what I was asking for anymore, but Toby seemed to know the answer anyway. He came up on tiptoes to kiss me. “Yeah. I promise.”

He reached into the bowl of frosting and swirled a little up my thigh. It felt like clouds, warmed by his mouth as he chased them down, scooping up the sticky flecks with his agile tongue. He kept caressing me long after all the frosting was gone, kissing and nibbling his way towards my groin. Though studiously ignoring my cock.

I closed my eyes. Unfurled beneath his attentions. Pain had burned away self-consciousness and any hint of shame, leaving me as pliant as the restraints would allow. All that remained was need and a kind of soaring exhilaration that made me laugh aloud and say, “I thought you were supposed to be converting me.”

“I am converting you.” He bit me about as hard as I deserved for that. I imagined, with a dark thrill, the blunt imprint of his teeth on my thigh. He’d left marks on me before. I’d worn them with secret pride. Pressed my fingers into them sometimes for the memory of pain. Then he lifted his head and collected another dollop of frosting.

We both watched as the foam hung tantalisingly from his fingers in pale, soft-edged stalactites. He brought it to my cock and let it slide over me, a few flecks drifting onto the tabletop.

He leaned in again, idling his other fingers up my shaft. “How do you like my lemon meringue pie now?”

I pushed into his touch. “I love it.”

“It’s delicious, isn’t it?” His breath swirled over my cock. “Best you’ve ever had.”

Then he slid his lips over me and my “Yes, oh yes” was as sincere as it was absolutely frantic.

He’d never done this to me before. He’d admitted once, a little awkwardly, he didn’t think he was very good at it, so I told him he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to do, and we’d never discussed it again. I liked to suck him though, on my knees with his hands knotted in my hair. Or lazily in the morning, pinning his writhing hips to the mattress. On my back, with Toby standing over me, his hand resting against my throat so he could feel his cock inside me.

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