Page 32 of Blue Collar Hotties

I don’t need her to entertain me. Don’t need her alwayson.

Hanging out in her presence is enough. It’s a balm to my world-weary soul.

Besides, I like just being here, flipping through the paperbacks from her shelf. Like seeing where she lives, grinning up at the embroidered Turkish carpet she’s got mounted above her bed. As she sews away, muttering under her breath, I run my fingertips over the retro bead curtain that separates her kitchen area from the rest of the living space, breathing in her spiced vanilla scent.

It’s comfortable. Sure, my body’s aching with how badly I want her, but I can tamp that down. And when I do, I get something even better—that warm, calm feeling that we belong. That I’m exactly where I need to be.

When Lenore starts to flag around 10pm, I get up and bake her chewy ginger cookies. Maybe a little sugar rush will help, and hey, these hands are good for more than laying roof tile.

“I’m sorry,” she moans for the millionth time when I emerge from the kitchen, falling on the plate of warm cookies like a starving hyena. “You must be so bored, Gabe. I’m not always like this, I swear.”

Can’t help grinning as Lenore stuffs a whole cookie in her cheek like a hamster. She blinks up at me, bug-eyed, like she’sjust remembered I can see her. “Shit,” Lenore says quietly, then tries to chew like a fancy lady with fancy manners. Too late for that.

I collapse onto the sofa next to her, biting into my own cookie. “I’m not bored. I like being around you, gorgeous, whatever you’re doing.”

Her cheeks turn pink, still stuffed full of ginger cookie, and I mentally pat myself on the back. It’s all true, obviously, but god, I love making Lenore blush. She reddens for me so easily.

“I’m basically done with this skirt,” she says, covering her mouth with one hand. “We could take a break together.”

“Oh yeah?” I’m already sliding to the floor, shuffling my knees across the rug. Elbowing her legs apart and settling in front of her, palms on her thighs.

Lenore stares at me, wide-eyed and trembling, and swallows down the last of her cookie with a gulp. Each breath stirs her chest beneath the green silk shirt she’s wearing, the buttons pulling across her perfect tits. Her sewing is gripped in her lap, forgotten.

“Want me to make you feel good, Lenore?”

She nods slowly. I nudge her knees wider with a grin.

And fuck, I love how she melts for me, sighing back into the sofa cushions. Love how her legs flop apart, flashing me a shameless peek at the triangle of white lace between her thighs, and how that blush climbs up her throat, her lips already red and bitten.

Lenore tosses the bundled sewing aside. She grips my wrists, stroking both hands up my arms, all the way to the hard muscle of my shoulders. Her brown eyes are clear, hungry. Determined. Like she’s relishing this as much as I am.

“Are these what I think they are?” I jerk my chin at that sliver of white lace beneath her skirt. She’s wearing a black cord skirtthat rumples up her thighs, and white ankle socks. This whole outfit is killing me.

“Uh-huh.” Lenore presses her lips against a smile, lifting her hips so I can push her skirt all the way up. It bunches around her waist, thick and ungainly, and somehow that sight gets me hotter than if she’d stripped bare right away.

A full body shiver rolls through Lenore as I stroke my palms up her thighs.

My thumb flirts with the edge of those white lace panties, the ones from that photo. The ones from that fashion show where she walked the catwalk, looking like a sultry angel; the panties that she promised to wear for me, with extra points if I took them off with my teeth.

Well, Gabe Dempsey never backs down from a challenge.

I lean forward, floorboards creaking beneath my weight. Lenore whimpers as I gust out a hot breath against the wet patch already forming there, and Christ, I cansmellher. Sweet and salty, with her own special musk. The air is warmer here, humid between her thighs, and I never want to leave.

I lick her once, dragging the flat of my tongue across damp lace. Already, she tastes better than any cookie.

Lenore hiccups, squirming on the sofa cushions, her fingernails digging into my shoulders.

I focus on those ten points of mild pain as I lick her again. And I don’t mind that she’s clawing me like that, no way—Ilikeit. It’s cold, hard proof that Lenore’s as messed up by this crazy connection between us as I am.

“Good girl,” I say, voice muffled by her panties. “That’s it. Let me have a taste.” When I suck her through the fabric, shewails, legs kicking up to rest over my shoulders. And those heels dig into my back, urging me on, as I bite down gingerly on the lace.

Don’t want to rip her work. Don’t want to hurt her either, so I’m extra careful as I tug with my teeth, sliding my hands underLenore’s ass to lift her from the sofa cushions. The panties come down her thighs easily enough, sticking to the wetness at her entrance for one long moment before finally peeling away.

I don’t tug them down far. Don’t have that kind of patience in me. As soon as they’re midway down her thighs, lace stretched between her limbs, I dive back in for another taste of Lenore.

She’s slicker than sin, so swollen and needy. Her tight little bodybegsfor me as I growl, rubbing my whole damn face between her legs, nose nudging her clit as I lick inside her. Plunging my tongue in and out, showing what I want to do to her with other parts of my body.

It’s so good. So much. I eat my girl like I’m a man on death row and she’s my last meal. Iravageher, and Lenore clings to my shoulders the whole time, bucking and moaning, grinding against my face with abandon. The backs of her knees are sweating into my shirt.

---